Confessions and appreciation: As a reader, I find it very hard to look at works in progress, mostly because I like to appreciate the flow of a complete story. Tales are meant to be told, after all, from beginning to end, not in fits and starts. I get frustrated when writers don't post timely updates, because I lose the flow of what they've tried so hard to create. Consequently, I almost always read only completed works.
As a writer, however, it is extremely gratifying and encouraging to know that there are brave souls out there willing to read a work in progress, trusting they will be updated regularly. I believe many stories would just dry up and blow away unfinished, were it not for these daring and generous individuals—without them, I know my own writing experience would not be as richly rewarding.
So, if you're reading this before the fifth and final chapter of "Dogged" gets posted, my hat is off to you, and I bow to you in gratitude. Thank you SO much, you intrepid reading-adventurer! I really appreciate you! Please look for Chapter 5 to be posted on Monday.
And if you're reading this after "Dogged" is completed, thanks to you, too! Better late than never, and I hope you'll read all the way through the story. Thanks for getting this far.
Dogged
Chapter Four
Showering was torture, the hard water stinging cruelly against the flayed flesh of Sam's chest and shoulder and side, so he had to stand well out of the spray, making the process long and arduous. He managed to get his hair washed, though, and on the whole he felt a lot better for the experience.
Except they had no clean towels left. Nor any antiseptic ointment for the long claw-marks that scored his body. Nor any gauze, so he could tape them up again.
He stood for a long, amazed moment in the middle of the bathroom, water dripping down his naked body and puddling on the tiles at his feet. Jesus, was there a single thing that could go right?
His knee was throbbing painfully, and he hopped one-legged into the main room, almost losing his balance when he hit carpet, nearly face-planting onto Dean's bed. Which put Dean's duffel within reach, so Sam rifled through it, sniff-testing the t-shirt that came out and using it to dry off, patting carefully at the open wounds and avoiding his knee altogether. He rubbed vigorously at his sopping hair, then wadded the shirt up and stuffed it back into the duffel. Even if it came out again mildewed, his friggin' brother would probably never notice.
Damn Dean, anyway, Sam thought darkly as he lurched back to the bathroom for his clothes and the woefully inadequate first-aid kit. It was all he was willing to think, relative to the deal—for tonight, at least. The pain of knowing what lay ahead for both of them was almost too much to bear, and he needed a break from it. Particularly after all the shouting earlier.
He absently studied his reflection in the mirror; saw a face he almost didn't recognize any more, a body battered too many times to count. Saw the fresh bruises, the raw wounds, the old scars. Looked for his soul amidst the brown and blue of his eyes, but did not find it.
God, he prayed it was still in there somewhere. Prayed that it wasn't what the thing in the woods had been looking for; that it hadn't let him go because he no longer had one.
Vacant eyes looked bleakly back at him from the mirror, and for a moment Sam put his face in his hands, dismayed and afraid of what he had become. What he might yet become, especially without his brother's strong, unfailing light to help guide him.
Oh, Dean….
He shivered, still damp from the shower, the reaction bringing him back to reality. He found the elastic wrap and strapped it tightly around his knee, stepping awkwardly into fresh boxers and jeans before fishing out the heating pad and last remaining ice-pack and tossing them through the doorway onto his bed. Alternating treatment, and the swelling should go down—even more so, if he could find the aspirin. Sam shrugged into a clean t-shirt and limped back to his bed, taking the laptop with him.
In conjunction with what Evonne Craig had shared, the research he'd begun earlier that day helped him identify other possible sources of information, and he got quickly to work.
Hours later, he was still at it, legs stretched out on the bed, heating pad warming his knee, ice-pack long since melted and lying neglected nearby. Only a little of his color had come back, making the marks along his throat appear even darker. He rubbed at them absently as he pulled up another website, scanning it perfunctorily.
There was a noise at the door, and Sam reached quickly for the gun beside him before he heard Dean cough, key scraping in the lock as his bleary-eyed brother let himself in.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Did you, uh—" Dean scratched at the nape of his neck, wavering indecisively in the doorway. "Did you get dinner, or did you want to--?"
Sam flipped a hand at the mostly-empty pizza box atop the television before returning his attention to the computer screen. "I ate. Restocked the first-aid, too."
"'Kay. Good."
Dean closed the door, tossing the key onto the nightstand and wandering to the TV, poking at the leftovers, finally picking up a cold slice and taking a bite, chewing contemplatively.
"So. You're good?" he asked after a moment.
"I'm good, Dean. Working."
"Yeah, I see. Working on what, exactly?"
Sam looked up at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? We nearly got killed out there yesterday by something that has probably killed dozens of other people over the years; some psychic lands on our doorstep calling me a special child—I think I've got a few things I could be working on, Dean!"
"Sorry. Stupid question."
There was no way Sam could keep the derision out of his voice. "Yeah. Tell me about it. You're probably concussed, Dean—I can't believe you went out and got drunk."
"I am not drunk, Sam," Dean corrected carefully. "I have been drinking. With the psychic. And now I kind of think that she's the real deal."
Sam set his mouth, determined to remain calm, not at all surprised by his brother's sudden shift in attitude.
"I think she is, too," he replied gruffly. "I didn't find any media coverage about her—just about the accident, and a divorce notice—but that phrase she mentioned?"
"Julie out the cellar door?"
So, Dean really wasn't drunk. Just thick, as usual. Or pretending to be. All right, then.
Sam sat up straighter against the headboard, catching the heating pad as it slid off his knee and repositioning it carefully. He clicked back through his cache of web-pages to the site where he'd found the syllabary.
"Actually," he said, confident now of his pronunciation, "it's 'utselidv ayule.' Here, look—"
Dean parked himself on the other bed while Sam shifted the computer, pointing to a table of odd symbols on the screen.
"That Russian?" Dean asked, squinting at the curly capitals, and his brother's smile stopped just short of condescending.
"Kinda looks Cyrillic, but it isn't. And they're not letters, either—they're sounds. Some languages are written with characters that represent syllables," the younger Winchester explained, and Dean hid a grin by taking another bite of the cold pizza. College Boy gettin' his geek on.
Warming to his task, Sam rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Japanese is probably the best-known example, but there are others, including Cherokee. Or Tsalagi, like I said earlier. This is the syllabary for the written Tsalagi language, and these"—he pointed again, several times—"are the symbols for the phrase Evonne used. 'Utselidv ayule.' Dean, she was right. It means 'special child.'"
"In Cherokee?" Dean suddenly didn't feel like grinning any more, and Sam nodded.
"In Tsalagi, yes."
"And we just happen to be in old Tsalagi country, in the Devil's Valley, when she shows up calling you names in Tsalagi."
Sam nodded again. "Yes."
Dean worked a congealed piece of cheese around in his mouth for a moment before taking in a quick breath. "Then I guess we really are in the happy hunting ground, Sammy."
"Uh, there's more."
The pizza almost choked him on its way down the wrong pipe, and Dean coughed vehemently.
"God," he finally said, eyes watering, voice strangled. "Why is it I'm certain that 'more' is a bad thing?"
Sam groaned in disgust as Dean rose to toss the rest of the slice back into the box.
"Dean, could you not—gah, forget it."
"What?"
Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Look," he began, "we already knew some things about the recent victims before we got here the first time, right? I mean, except for Amanda Apley."
"Oh, this is a bad thing," Dean said certainly, and Sam couldn't disagree.
"We knew that Cal Jesperson was a very successful CPA, and that Danny Milgrew had earned recognition in the beekeeping, uh, field. Right?"
"So?" Dean's eyebrows were drawn together tightly, his voice rife with suspicion.
Sam huffed a tired sigh. "So there was a clip on the local news tonight about Amanda. Who, it turns out, has been on Bell Valley TV from time to time since she was seven. It seems that she has quite a reputation locally as an accomplished violinist."
For the second time in just a few hours, Dean felt the panic spring to life, battering inside him, clawing at him, fighting to get out.
Running a hand back through his hair, oblivious, Sam poked with the other at the laptop keyboard. "Which means that all three of them were outstanding, somehow, and each could be considered a special child."
Ohgod, ohgodohgod.
The rising wave of dread swept through him, pitching the floor beneath him, and Dean dropped blindly onto the bed, overwhelmed. He'd used a stick to examine the horrific brutality of Calvin Jesperson's wounds, but nothing could have gotten him to touch those on little Amanda Apley. It was Amanda, now, who came to mind unbidden, mocking him, her face horribly swollen and disfigured, throat laid open, the gashes on her body raw and teeming with maggots.
As I am, so shall you be…
"Was it—" His voice came out a husk, so Dean cleared his throat brusquely and tried again. "Was it hellhounds killed these people, Sammy?" he asked. "Did they make crossroads deals like me?"
Sam's head snapped up, his mouth agape. Never in his life had he heard his brother sound so lost, not even in the terrible days following their father's death; never seen his face look so bleak and desperate. Dean had gone pasty-white, and Sam wasn't sure he was even breathing.
"Dean, no, I don't think—"
He stopped, unwilling suddenly to give the man a pat answer, not on something so obviously poignant. And he wouldn't sugarcoat it, either, whatever the answer turned out to be—they both knew that Dean's death would be just as ugly, just as horrific as any they'd ever seen.
Sam kept his eyes on his brother as he considered the question rapidly, examining it from every angle before finally shaking his head.
"No, Dean," he said firmly. "Because they were all special, you mean? No, I don't think they were killed by hellhounds. Something else did it, something we haven't found yet. Those people didn't make deals—I think their talents, their gifts, were just garden-variety normal."
Despite his intentions, Sam could still hear the solace in his own voice and was grateful for it, especially when Dean turned desolate green eyes to him, anguished, stricken.
"Normal," he whispered. "I don't even know what that means, any more, Sammy."
Once he was out, Dean slept like a dead man, but Sam worked doggedly throughout the night, not even stopping for a quick nap. He found the legend in the darkest hours, on his second pot of coffee, almost missing it when blurry eyes read 'Tuskegee' instead of 'Tsalagi.'
The tale's origin was clearly the Chischono Valley, however, and the coincidence it contained was unmistakable. Once he decided on its meaning, Sam buried his face in his hands again, this time in relief. Now it made sense.
He took another moment to compose himself, gaze drifting between the computer screen and the other bed where his brother lay. Then he gathered his wits and began planning his strategy.
He spent the time until Dean awoke on research, poring over page after page of lore and ritual and vocabulary, more than once tempted to call Bobby but always deciding against it. By dawn, Sam was confident he was on the right track, and before the sun had fully risen, he was certain he had the answer. All Bobby could do was confirm it, and there was no need to wake him for that.
Then he heard from Ruby, and she laughed at him.
"Yeah, Short-Bus will probably buy that, but I'm surprised at you, Sam. You know better. Like calls to like."
Again he found himself rubbing the marks on his neck, doubting, wondering. Feeling an odd thrill zing through him as he remembered the creature slavering over him, ready to rip out his throat, then backing off.
Ruby was even more contemptuous when he explained what he had planned. "Sam, the time for believing in fairy tales is over, and you need to be a big boy, now," she said, voice mocking. "Go ahead, try it. Call it Rumpelstiltskin, for all I care. But if it works, it'll be because you are what you are, not because of the words you choose."
Demons lie, Sam reminded himself coldly when she was gone.
He kept the volume on the computer low, paying special heed to tonalities and pitch, taking copious notes, marking his paper assiduously.
When Dean finally stirred, muttering something about sparks, Sam felt he was ready.
"Dean, get up," he urged.
"Wha'?" His older brother squinted up at him, then dragged a pillow over his face, rolling onto his other side and burrowing further beneath the blankets. "'S not even daylight."
Sam ripped the pillow away.
"It's nine-thirty. Come on, Dean, I mean it. Get up! I think I found our killer."
His brother sat up instantly, blinking wide-eyed to help him waken, grabbing a t-shirt and pulling it on quickly over his healing wounds.
"Tell me," he ordered tersely, stumbling from the bed and into the bathroom, snagging his jeans along the way. "Go, Sam!"
Sam spoke loudly over the splash.
"I found a legend that originated with the local Tsalagi tribe, way back before they were relocated to Oklahoma. It's about how Chischono Valley got its name, kind of like one of Rudyard Kipling's just-so stories."
The toilet flushed, and Dean worked quickly at the sink, sluicing cold water onto his face before using the towel, buttoning his jeans on his way back into the room.
"Coffee," he growled, and Sam pointed.
"There were two brothers," the younger Winchester began, reciting by heart while Dean poured. "And the younger one was beautiful and beloved by all, not only because he was fair and strong and well-muscled, but because he had the ability to charm the deer and birds and all the animals, who came when he called to them."
"So, kind of like with the unicorn, laying its head in the lap of a virgin," Dean observed, proffering the pot to Sam.
Sam started to shake his head, but changed his mind, tossing his mug across the little space, Dean catching it one-handed. "It isn't very fresh."
"It's your coffee, Sam, which means it sucks, but it's better than nothing. Go! Tell!"
"Okay, so, anyway, while the younger brother was much loved, bla bla bla, the older brother did not have his beauty, did not have his gift, and to the older one's shame, the people thought that he was weak and foolish."
Sam was too wrapped up in his story to notice Dean's fleeting look of discomfort as he passed the coffee mug back over.
"Ouch. Hot. Thanks."
Glad Sam apparently hadn't caught the irony, Dean chose to let it go unmentioned, focusing instead on the tangible. Little brother had the coffee-jitters big-time.
"This isn't your first pot, is it?" he observed.
"Huh, no—third, maybe fourth. I've been up all night. Listen, would you?"
"Floor's yours, dude."
"All right, so, out of jealousy, Dean, the older brother kills the younger one, and that winter the village goes hungry."
"Wait—huh?"
Sam waved a hand, beckoning Dean to catch up. "Because the younger one couldn't call the deer and the birds any more. So the village casts the murderer out, and in time, he becomes a beast, and the woods where he roams take on his name. And—" Sam gusted a big sigh as he approached the legend's end—"what happened to him after the tribe set out on the Trail of Tears, no one is left alive to tell."
Dean took a sip of the scalding coffee, screwing up his face in bewilderment. "Guy's name was 'Devil'? That hardly seems fair—no wonder he turned out bad. Parents probably hated him from birth."
"What are you talking about?" It was Sam's turn to look confused, and Dean ticked the points off on his fingers.
"You said 'the woods where he roamed took on his name.' Place was called 'Chischono,' and that means 'devil,' so where's the confusion?"
"You're being too literal." That was a first. "The older brother became a beast, a 'devil,' and that's how the valley got its name. Because the beastly devil roamed. In the woods. That were in the valley. Got it?"
"Not really, no." Dean shook his head. "What makes you think that this poor devil-boy is our killer?"
Sam's face wrinkled with disgusted impatience. "Are you being intentionally lame this morning?"
Dean felt his hand tighten convulsively around the coffee mug, and he struggled for a moment with the urge to throw it across the room. "No, Sam!" he snapped acidly before leashing his temper. "I never intend to be lame—sometimes I just am. I'm not the brilliant, gifted younger brother, remember?"
"Uh." Catching the older man's darkening scowl, Sam realized his error. "Sorry. Really. I've just been at this all night, and the coffee—sorry. Okay, here's why this legend describes our killer. First, the younger brother had a special gift, and all the victims we know about have been special, somehow."
Dean nodded reluctantly, so Sam continued. "Two, they were brothers, and the older one begrudged the younger one's beauty and talent. Remember what that woman said, the night we found Cal Jesperson's body? The county supervisor's wife—she said his sisters were envious of his success, right? And Danny Milgrew, the beekeeper, used to work with his brother, but they had a falling-out. I did some more checking, Dean—Danny got all the credit for developing that new breed of bee, even though he and his brother were still equal partners at the time. Partners on paper, anyway. Don't you think maybe the brother might've felt some resentment about missing out on the recognition?"
Dean was following easily, now. "Probably find that Amanda Apley's sister or one of her brothers wanted some of the attention she got with the violin—hell, maybe they all wanted more attention. Maybe that's why she was running away."
"Yeah, could be." Sam frowned thoughtfully, remembering. "The sister was on the newscast. Said she'd always admired the way Amanda could play, and wished it could be her."
"So you think Beastly Devil-Brother is killing off naturally-gifted people with grabby siblings, that it? I don't know, Sammy. There's an awful lot of guesswork, there—still seems a little light."
"That's 'cause I haven't told you the kicker, yet."
Their eyes met and held, Sam's lips growing thin.
"What is it?" Dean asked warily, knowing Sam would have saved the best for last.
"What the Tsalagi called the beast who roamed in the Chischono woods."
"Well…they called him 'devil,' right?"
"No. They called him the 'uyoi gitli,' Dean. It means 'evil dog.'"
There was silence for a moment, each of them considering the implications of the term, and then Dean sprayed coffee across the carpet as he lost his struggle not to laugh.
"'Bad Dog'?" he said, incredulous. "They called this jealous, brother-murdering psychopath 'Bad Dog'?"
Sam's face reddened. "Dean! Could you be serious? The Tsalagi believed that something they called an evil dog roamed this valley, and I think it's what tore Calvin Jesperson and Amanda Apley apart. Probably Danny Milgrew, too. You saw the paw-prints, same as I did. You heard what the coroner said about what killed Jesperson. Hell, that thing's fang-marks are still all over my neck!"
Dean sobered instantly at the reminder, and he wiped the coffee off his chin with the back of a hand, then dried the hand against his jeans.
"All right, you're right," he said. "Then I guess that makes us dog-catchers, Sammy. So how do we kill this sonofabitch?"
By the time Sam finished explaining his plan, Dean was staring at him dumbfounded.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" he asked.
Sam threw his head back with an exasperated groan. "Look, Dean, I did all the research—I checked the lore, listened to the rituals, wrote out the pronunciation—and I'm pretty sure this is going to work."
"How pretty sure?" The crease between Dean's brows deepened skeptically.
Sam took a moment to consider the question. "Fairly pretty sure," he confirmed, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"I'm not singin' a lullaby to a friggin' hellhound, Sammy. Gimme that."
He pulled Sam out of the chair and took control of the laptop, working back through the cache, scanning the information on each screen quickly before moving on.
"That thing is not a hellhound, Dean, and this is not a lullaby." Frustrated, Sam brandished the paper at him again. "It's a banishing chant to send the uyoi gitli to the Tsalagi version of the afterlife. This is no different than performing an exorcism in Latin, and you know it."
"We don't sing in Latin, Sam."
"Dea—" Sam's face pinched tight as he took firm hold of his temper, throttling it into submission, resolved not to let his brother's dogged determination to be a mulish, pig-headed jackass—
Sam ran out of barnyard references and took a deep breath, wincing as pain flared across his chest and side, adamant that his hard work would not be undermined. "This is not singing," he said evenly. "It's chanting. And I think it's our best chance to get rid of the uyoi gitli once and for all."
Dean had paused on one of Sam's cached websites, eyes roving intently, and he still wasn't buying.
"C'mon, man, Bobby's gotta know a shaman or somebody—there's that guy over in Pennsylvania, right?"
Sam shook his head. "He's Lenape, Dean. Different tribe, different lore, different rituals. This is Tsalagi."
Dean took his lower lip between his teeth, then turned from the computer with a grin.
"Proof right there I can't do it—can't even keep the tribes straight, so how am I supposed to read that Russian chicken-scratching you got going there? Somehow I don't think 'Get out of the cellar, Judy' is going to banish anything."
"'Julie,'" Sam corrected, then caught himself with an annoyed grimace. Damn it, Dean! "Look, it's all written out phonetically, using simple words even you can understand." He kept his tone patient and lightly persuasive, recognizing the knife-edge they were walking, hoping Dean chose not to take offense. But he'd started it, laying down the I'm-just-a-big-dumb-jerk card….
Dean's eyes wandered back to the computer screen for another moment before he dropped his head, preparing for possible submission.
"Man," he whined petulantly. "Why does it have to be me that sings?"
Counting to five silently, Sam willed himself to remain calm, to play his own cards right. "It's chanting, not singing. And you've got to do it because I'm gonna be busy."
Dean's head came up sharply at that, possible submission tossed aside in an instant. "Doing what?"
Sam shrugged as casually as he could manage. "I'm the special child, remember, and the uyoi gitli came after me before, so we know it wants me. I'm gonna be bait."
"Oh, no." Dean laughed. "Nonono. So not gonna happen, little brother. As I recall, that bad boy started in on me first, and then he couldn't stand the taste of you. Spat you right out. If anybody's bait, it's gonna be me."
Sam gave up all efforts to maintain his composure.
"I'm not arguing with you, Dean, I'm telling you." His voice rose sharply, and when Dean's eyes went icy, Sam batted his words away with impatience. "Look, how else do you explain Evonne Craig showing up on our doorstep with her 'message,' huh? You know there's no such thing as coincidence in our lives, man—I'm the special child, and the uyoi gitli will come after me. So please. Let me show you how to get rid of that thing and save my life."
It was always the ace up his sleeve, and this time, Sam had no qualms about playing it.
His brother's glare was accusatory and irate, but after a long, tense moment the coldness in Dean's eyes thawed. In another moment it melted away entirely as he unwillingly surrendered the laptop, and Sam called up the audio sample of a Tsalagi ritual chant.
"Oh, fuck me, no," Dean groaned as he listened. "Couldn't we just blast some Ozzy at him? C'mon, 'Bark at the Moon' would do it, dontcha think?"
But he turned up the volume to listen more closely, and Sam knew that he had won.
The caffeine overdose left Sam's nerves jangling, his focus scattered as they pulled off Kelton Road, parking the Impala behind a screen of trees and bushes. He climbed out of the car on shaky legs, unaccustomed to feeling so jittery, wondering briefly if there was more at play here than just too much coffee.
For whatever reason, Dean also seemed a little off his game.
"Do we use the sage again?" he asked, but Sam shook his head.
"No, we want the uyoi gitli to come to us, this time, not drive it away."
"Yeah. Right. Wouldn't want that."
Dean snapped a twig off a low-hanging fir branch then brushed hard past Sam, taking the lead as they headed down the deer-trail.
"Sorry," he tossed back over his shoulder, and Sam scowled, annoyed.
Didn't sound very sorry.
They had decided to go back to the clearing where the uyoi gitli had first attacked them, figuring that as their best bet. It was a long and silent trek through the thick trees, but they moved quickly, intent on their target.
Freakin' piece of crap jacket, Dean groused to himself, flipping the collar up around his ears, can't keep out the cold or the bugs. He had no idea where his other jacket was, the one he'd been wearing the first time they'd hunted this thing, and no way in hell was he wearing his good leather one in these woods, get it snagged on these damn branches, maybe ripped.
He frowned, shoving away the insidious voice that reminded him he wouldn't be needing any jacket, soon; tried to focus instead on the piece of paper folded in his pocket, focus on the plan, focus on the hunting.
Oh, how the hunting had changed. Fuck, even the fact he couldn't stay focused was a change, 'cause there was a time he'd loved nothing more than this very thing. Until recently, hunting had always been a romp, a glorious quest the only important consequence of which was that people got saved and bad things got killed. God, he'd reveled in it.
Somewhere along the line, though, that had changed, maybe with Sam's visions, maybe with Dad's death, he didn't really know. But all the joy and all the sense of victory were gone, now, and all that remained was a gaping, gnawing hole eating at his insides, and an eternity in Hell stretching before him. That he'd be there alone, forever, terrified him.
For an awful moment, Dean allowed himself to envy Sam his life.
As always, Sam ceded point to his big brother, Dean carrying a shotgun and still moving easily ahead while Sam kept his hands free, pushing aside grasping branches and swatting impatiently at the unseen midges whining faintly around his ears. Weird they were out in this cold. He tried to stay mindful of the task at hand but his thoughts strayed unerringly to the future, to the days after Dean's time ran out.
Once, maybe, Sam had had a dog's chance at normal, but that chance was gone and he didn't foresee ever having another, despite what Dean seemed to think. No, Sam was pretty much screwed—like it or not, he would always be a hunter.
But somewhere along the line, hunting had changed. Maybe since he'd come back from the dead; maybe since he'd learned a few things from Ruby—he wasn't really sure. Not that he embraced hunting—no, not yet, not the way Dean always had. But he'd warmed to it, recently, grown to it, wrapped himself in it, knowing that for him there was no escape. The arcane and terrifying world of hunting would be his, and his alone, for the rest of his life, however long that might be. That he might actually enjoy it horrified him.
For a terrible moment, Sam allowed himself to envy Dean his death.
The clearing opened up before them, Dean's old, bloodied jacket still lying in the mud, and Dean stopped abruptly, Sam almost running into him from behind.
"Know what?" the older brother said, turning to the younger one. "Screw this."
He pulled the banishing ritual from his pocket and crumpled it one-handed, tossing it to the ground as Sam gaped at him.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked in astonishment. "Dean, we need that!"
He reached down to pick it up, but Dean swatted him on the shoulder, stopping him effectively.
"Why? What do we care if the world loses a few more hopeless, pansy-ass souls to this 'bad dog' of yours, huh? Let's just go, Sammy."
Sam blinked. "Uh, 'cause it's our job to care, Dean, and we're not leaving here until we send this sonofabitch to the Place of Bad Spirits, where it belongs."
"What's the point, Sam?" Dean scoffed. "You said it yourself, one way or another—evil's just gonna keep right on comin', long after I'm gone, long after you're gone. You're so dead set on stayin' in the business? Doesn't even matter, 'cause the evil's never gonna stop comin'."
"It's our job, Dean," Sam repeated firmly, temper flaring. "We've always done it, all our lives, and we're not stopping now. So pick that up."
Dean squared his shoulders, squared his jaw.
"Make me," he challenged, and Sam's astonishment grew.
"What're you, friggin' ten, now, Dean? This isn't a schoolyard. This is life or death!"
"Yeah it is—our lives and our deaths." Markedly vexed, Dean batted at the air around his head, around his ears. "I'm about cashed in, Sammy, and that's—well, it's not fine, but it is what it is. You've got a chance to get out of this damn thing alive, and I'm beggin' you to take it, man!"
"What the hell are we even arguing about, Dean?" Sam cried furiously.
"We're arguin' about you stayin' alive, you selfish bastard!" Dean spat.
"Look in a mirror, Dean!" Sam responded, reaching out to shove his brother's shoulder roughly, rocking Dean back slightly.
"Keep your giant paws to yourself, Sam," Dean said, threatening.
"You imagine you're being so freaking selfless with this deal, Dean, when we both know you just didn't bother to think. You jumped into an eternity in Hell because you were just too stupid to realize exactly what you were doing, and too pathetic to take living alone. So now, I have to."
A tiny voice wailed in Sam's head, begging him to stop, to think about what he was saying—ohgod, you don't mean this!—but he elbowed it away, swatting at the pestering, invisible gnats around his ears as their tone changed from whine to something almost subsonic. God, he was sick of the candy-coating, the waltzing and dodging and weaving around the subject of Dean's deal. Time to lay all the friggin' cards right out on the table for everybody to see.
Dean's voice was rough with barely-suppressed rage and grief. "I gave my life for you. Don't you throw that away, Sam."
"I can't, Dean," Sam replied venomously. "You already did. You gave me a death sentence the day you accepted yours!"
The unexpected response shook him, paralyzed him for just an instant, but then Dean shoved back with a savage growl, both hands bouncing off his brother's chest with enough force that Sam nearly lost his balance. He reached out swiftly, snagging Dean's left wrist.
"Knock it off, Dean."
Dean twisted free and pushed again.
"Fuck you, Sam."
Sam huffed a laugh; turned away slightly before launching a quick right that caught Dean in the jaw. The older man grunted in surprise, amazement becoming acceptance becoming antagonism on his face.
"Oh, you want this now?" Dean snarled, curling his hands into loose fists. "Well, then, you better just come on."
He kicked out abruptly, tagging Sam lightly in the shin just below his bad knee, forcing him off-balance, letting him know Dean meant business. Flailing, again Sam barely kept his feet, and Dean grinned widely, goading.
"Not gonna win any dance contests lookin' like that, Sammy."
Sam shook the hair from his eyes and assumed a ready stance, feet planted, knees flexed, mirroring his brother's cocked fists. He knew every move in Dean's repertoire, had seen him execute each one a hundred or a thousand times, knew how to read Dean's eyes and face and body to know what was coming. Still, his brother was the best fighter Sam had ever encountered. God help me, he thought, striving to hide his apprehension. But truth be told? He was fucking done with taking Dean's crap.
Dean ran his tongue along his lower lip, watching Sam prepare. This was gonna be good, and the best part of all was gonna be taking his smart-ass little brother down a peg. Or three. Guy might be a freaking genius, but fighting was a matter where the student hadn't surpassed the teacher yet.
He dipped a shoulder, feinting left, Sam countering easily if stiffly, the claw-marks on his side obviously still giving him trouble.
The younger Winchester threw right, and Dean slapped the punch away with a laugh, Sam immediately responding by darting in with a left to the gut that almost took Dean's breath. But he recovered instantly.
"Okey-dokey, Sammy," Dean cooed, voice low and lethal. "Let's see what you got."
Sam's brow furrowed as he pulled back, protecting his side and his bad knee, an odd pressure building in his ears. "Wait," he said angrily, frowning, shaking his head to clear it. "Dean, wait."
Dean stung him lightly, knuckles on cheekbone. "Aw, you just know you're going to get your ass kicked. C'mon. Let's get it over with."
"No—something's wrong. This is wrong!"
"No it ain't, Sammy—it's just been a long time comin'." And Dean waded in.
They fought, as always, with a syncretic mixture of boxing and budo and brawling that was pure Winchester, no breath wasted on jibes or taunts, the only sounds their scuffling feet, the sharp smack of fist meeting flesh, a harsh gasp when a blow landed solid.
Dean was in his element, adrenalin washing through him, feeding him. Fighting came to him like breathing, every move natural, erupting from him without conscious thought. Many times in their lives, Sam had seen him take on opponents bigger, stronger, faster, meaner—sometimes two or three at once—and still emerge the victor. His brother had a horrific gift, and he used it instinctually, finding every weakness, seizing every opportunity to inflict maximum damage. Always, always he expected to win.
Sam sized up his chances. He had the longer reach, of course, helping to offset Dean's sturdy build and natural talent, but his real advantage came from knowing his brother as well as he did. There was a move Dean favored, a combination of blows from elbow and fist and foot, and if the fight lasted long enough, Dean would certainly use it. Which meant Sam could use it, too.
Through the odd, red haze of his anger, Sam planned, strategizing, biding his time. When the moment came, he would be ready.
They jabbed and dodged and kicked, throwing punches with informed abandon. Dean abruptly lowered his head and charged, butting into Sam's gut and driving him across the clearing, both of them crashing to the ground beneath thick bushes where they rolled, grappling in the mud and leaves for dominance. At last Sam scrambled free, striking out with his bad leg, catching Dean solidly in the ribs and evincing a curse from the older man, although Dean jumped nimbly to his feet, still grinning maliciously.
As he rose, Sam let fly with a straight right, but Dean ducked to one side, letting the blow graze his cheekbone and returning with a right hook that had Sam seeing stars. When Sam staggered back, Dean pressed his advantage, hitting his brother this time in the mouth, splitting Sam's bottom lip.
It was Sam's turn to curse, anger flaring brighter. He took the offensive, lashing out, landing a jab to the older man's nose that sprayed blood across them both and momentarily stopped Dean in his tracks.
"Not bad, little brother," Dean panted, swiping at his face, chest heaving. "Just try it again."
Sam obliged, launching a cross which Dean smacked down and away. Sam twisted to his side, and Dean came up under his ribs with a sharp left, then tapped Sam none too gently with his boot at the inside of Sam's bad knee.
Sam grunted, staggering as the knee threatened to give way, and Dean laughed outright. A mixture of sweat and blood burned in his eyes and he was more winded than he wanted to be, but dammit this had been a long time coming, and it felt good. Adrenalin flooded his veins as he swatted the wetness from his brow with the back of a hand, teasing Sam meanwhile with two feinting jabs from the other, a jackal's leer plastered across his face.
Once again, he waded in. Time to put this puppy down.
By the time Sam recognized the combination he'd been waiting for, Dean was halfway through the second move. He'd thrown the elbow strike and had drawn his fist back for the right cross when Sam dodged. He stepped past Dean and snagged him under the left arm, forearm circling behind Dean's head, sweeping his feet out from under him with the good leg and driving him face-first into the mud, following him down. They landed heavily, Sam on top, his weight forcing the air from Dean's lungs. Dean's arm was extended back and over his head as Sam applied more pressure, smashing Dean's cheek against the ground, taking advantage of his longer legs to pinion Dean's hips, knees and ankles.
"How does that feel?" Sam grated, shifting to angle Dean's arm higher, harder, feeling the bone rub against the socket as Dean groaned. "Who's the fucking better fighter now, huh, big brother?"
He snared Dean's right wrist in a bone-crushing grip, calculating every move with military precision and then flipping him in an instant, repositioning them both. Dean was lying on his back, now, face up, and Sam was in complete control as he pinned the older man to the forest floor, good knee securing Dean's left forearm against his side, Dean's right wrist now locked in Sam's other hand.
His brother bucked ineffectually beneath him, striving to throw him off-balance, but Sam had found his center of gravity and wasn't budging. Dripping sweat, he grinned down mirthlessly, striking Dean hard across the face once, twice, three times before catching Dean's windpipe in his free hand, gripping firmly, fingers pressed cruelly along his trachea. Tensing. Testing. Sam licked his lower lip, tasting the blood there.
Alarm flared in Dean's wide eyes as he glared up at Sam, still trying to wriggle free, to get enough leverage with his elbows or his legs to throw his little brother aside, breaking the air choke. But the hold on his throat was tight and relentless, and Dean felt his lungs laboring, heart already pounding, vision graying as he struggled to breathe.
"Sam!" he gasped. "Air!"
Sam smiled down at him, wolf-like, and did not let go.
Again, thanks for reading. Comments are welcomed. Please look for Chapter 5 on Monday.