Chapter 7
Say something. Fuck. Say something. All I had on me was my goddamned phone and a Swiss army knife in my upper jacket pocket. Like it would do me a damned bit of good to pull it out when I still had to open the fucking thing with both hands. Fuck. I scanned the room with my peripheral vision, looking for weapons, anything I could defend myself with. The pokers by the fireplace next to him were out of my reach. I spied a stainless steel ballpoint pen on the coffee table in front of me. I noticed the books lying on the fireplace mantle. I read the spine of one: Endocrinology.
I kept my tone even, as unaffected as I could muster. "So, you're interested in endocrinology?" How the fuck am I going to get out of here alive? Stupid. I'm goddamned stupid. Nothing to protect myself with.
The man turned his head toward the fireplace and glanced at the book. "Yeah, I'm studying it...for college."
Keep him talking. Keep him talking. Stay alive. Don't just fucking stare at me, Brad! HELP!
"Oh, right. It's quite a fascinating subject though, the endocrine system." My heart thundered in my chest. Adrenaline raced through my veins.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Exactly! Some people, they think that the brain and nervous system control the body. But it isn't true." He beamed. "The glands in our body control all of our physiology and behavior, everything from our sleep cycles, our sexual urges, growth, pain, our immune systems-"
I cut him off. "And the pituitary gland controls them all." Why did I say that?
"YES!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together, then pointing at me.
Survive. Get out the door. "You know, I changed my mind, could you get me a cup of coffee, if it isn't too much trouble?"
"Sure!" He smiled at me, still excited. He got up and walked into the kitchen.
As soon as he stepped out of view, I snatched the pen off the table and rushed toward the door.
Hurry hurry hurry hurry!
About three feet from the front door, he plowed into me, launching me forward. Twist your body! You can't fight with your back to him!
I turned as we fell, his arms around my shoulders. As I shifted my body, my hip slammed on the ceramic tile floor, agony shooting through my nerves. The pen shot out of my hand. FUCK! As I tried to push him off of me, he grabbed my hair and smacked my head on the tile. I screamed and struggled to focus as pain surrounded my skull. He wrapped his soft hands around my neck and began to squeeze.
I'm not ready to die I don't want to die oh God no not here not now! Aching for breath, I began to panic as I frantically tried to peel his hands off my throat. I thrashed and kicked helplessly as he pinned me to the floor. My reaper stood above us, watching, his face placid.
"I'm going to kill you and consume you!" The murderer spat out at me, his eyes wild and veins popping out on his forehead.
I tugged on his fingers as shadows moved into the edges of my vision. My eyes watered and I blinked back tears. No no no no no!
"And your dead flesh will pull off your bones as I live forever!" He squeezed tighter.
I stared up at Brad. My vision began to fade. He would not help me. He brought death. He did not save the living. He leaned down toward me, his eyes fixed on mine. It's time. I'm dying. I will go. I stopped struggling and let my arms drop onto my chest, focusing my gaze on my reaper. I would not be afraid.
And then he spoke. For the first time ever, he said something to me, his pale face a foot away from mine. He said in a voice clear and low and calm, "Grab the pen to your right." Then, he stood back up and watched.
I jutted my right arm out. I frantically beat my open palm across the floor. And then I touched the cool metal barrel with my fingers. I grabbed the pen. I aimed for the protruding artery underneath his jaw, barely visible in my oxygen-deprived haze. With all the life left in me, I stabbed the pen into his neck and pulled it back out. Blood gushed out and splattered on my clothes. His hands jerked upward off of my throat on to his own as he scrambled to stop the bleeding.
I gasped. I hacked. I coughed. I wheezed, my lungs desperate for air. Blood spurted out of his neck, racing down his fingers. As I continued to choke, I pushed him off of me on to the floor. Still coughing, I struggled backward, pulling my knees in as I leaned against the closed door. Timothy Johnson's body stilled and his eyes glazed. The dark red pool crept toward me and I noticed the spirit of the killer standing beside Brad, confused as he peered down at his own corpse.
I watched in horror at what happened next.
The bland face on Brad transformed. His already pasty skin stretched across the bones of his face, causing his cheeks to hollow. His peaceful eyes blackened into large gaping holes. He sneered and opened his mouth to the ghost, revealing dozens of yellow pointed teeth. The soul of the killer stood stupefied as razor-sharp black claws extended from my reaper's fingers. The creature thrust his right hand into the phantom's chest, causing the killer to shriek in agony as it pulled him down through the floor.
And then, I was alone.
A sob began to build in my aching throat as I nearly wiped my eyes with my bloody right hand. I cleared my throat and held it back, afraid that if I started crying I would never stop. I sat for what seemed like a long time, concentrating on the blood inching toward me. I should call someone, right? I never called the authorities when I destroyed a supe. If there were bodies left behind by some monster, I rushed out of there, knowing I could be blamed for the deaths. This was different. I killed a killer, a human, a man.
I reached into my upper jacket pocket and pulled out my phone, grateful that I opted for the sturdy case. I contemplated my reflection on the screen. I wasn't just a huntress anymore. I was a killer. I hit the missed call notification and pushed send.
I cleared my throat, hoping my voice was back to normal.
After a couple of rings, Dean answered. "Yeah?"
"You called." I closed my eyes, hiding from the murder scene.
"I told you I would." He sounded distant. Maybe I just felt like he was thousands of miles away.
"You did." I admitted. I should ask him about what to do about the corpse. I needed to call Bobby, but the signal didn't reach that far.
"Are you okay? You don't sound okay?" He seemed concerned.
I tried to clear my throat again, but the scratchy edge in my voice remained. "I just... have a sore throat and ...I'm tired." I eyed the bloody corpse, the dead stare.
"Yeah, me too. Are you on a case?"
"I..." Dean would know what to do, I thought. "Just finished one." I looked at the red stains on my hand, my suit. "What about you?" I asked, trying to care.
"Finished one yesterday. I hoped I could see you."
"Okay." The metallic smell of blood and sourness of death flooded my nostrils. Nausea began to wash over me. I got up and walked over to the small kitchen.
"Where are you now?"
I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, freeing my hands. I turned the faucet on and began to wash away the blood, watching the crimson water swirl down the stainless steel drain. "What?" I breathed slowly as the nausea passed.
"Where are you?" He repeated.
I grabbed a white dishtowel towel from the rack behind the sink and dried my hands. I spied a few bottles of liquor on the counter against the south wall.
"Uh, you know where I am. You turned on the GPS on my phone." One bottle of something clear was still sealed. Vodka. I used the towel to open it up and took a swig.
Silence. "God, I am creepy."
"Mmm hmm."
"You want me to come there, to Laramie?"
I set down the bottle. "Uh, no." I turned behind me and looked at the corpse. Should I call the police? Should I run? I ran my hand over the back of my skull, feeling the growing knot. .
"Do you want to meet me in Loveland tomorrow night?"
"Loveland?" Loveland? What the hell, Dean?
Dean stammered. "Uh, Fort Collins. I mean, Fort Collins."
I forced myself to look at the body again. I needed to get out of there. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."
"So I'll call you tomorrow and let you know where to meet me."
"Yep."
"Bye."
"See ya."
I clicked the end button. I didn't know if I was making the right choice, but I had to do something. I did a quick search for the number to the sheriff's department and hit send.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood beside the shocked sheriff, the two of us alone in Timothy Johnson's home.
"Jesus H. Christ. What goddamned happened here?" He stared at the body.
"What happened, Sheriff, is that I solved your goddamned case for you and killed the son of a bitch." I pretended I was cool and collected. I hoped he believed me.
"Why didn't you fucking shoot him?" He turned to me and crossed his arms.
"Because he attacked me before I could get to my gun."
He nodded. "Damn. I'll call it in."
"You sure you want to do that right away, Sheriff Wheeler?"
"What kind of a game are you playing, Agent?" He asked, furrowing his brow.
"This isn't my first rodeo." I couldn't resist the cheesy metaphor. "You call this in right now, I end up with a week's worth of paperwork and every time one of you cowboys can't solve a case on your own, I end up in Nowhere, Wyoming."
He grunted at me. "So what do you suggest? We pretend you didn't stab some psycho in the throat?"
"Yes. I walk out of here, you get yourself a little bloody and tell everyone that you are the one who killed him. You become the hero and secure your re-election as the sheriff who stopped Laramie's first serial killer."
"Who says I'm running for sheriff again?" He countered.
"Or mayor. Or senator?" I raised my eyebrows. "'Senator Clayton Wheeler.' It does have a nice ring to it."
The sheriff studied me, squinting his eyes. "You walk out of here?"
"I go home."
He paused for several seconds. "Alright."
I shook his hand, thanked him, and walked out the door, grateful that the dark suit hid the drying blood, at least unless someone looked closely. Did I agree to meet Dean at a hotel in Colorado? I thought it would make me feel like a hero to tell the sheriff about the killer, to show him what I had done. Instead, it made me feel out of control, alone.
About 15 minutes later, I plodded into my motel room with a fifth of vodka, a bean burrito, and four bottles of blue Gatorade. I had driven in a daze, everything a blur broken only by a stop at a convenience store. The clerk had pulled a gun on me when he saw me and I had to show him my FBI badge. Apparently, employees at Fuel and Food weren't used to seeing women with dried blood all over their blazers.
After I closed the door to my room, I ripped the suit and stained shirt off of me. I tried the trash can in the bathroom first, but it was plastic. I checked the other one under the desk: metal. Thank God. I threw the bloody clothes in it and dragged it to the bathroom, the vodka in my other hand. Shit. Matches. I hurried back out to the desk with walnut veneer and grabbed the book out of the ashtray. I doused my favorite suit with booze and dropped the match, watching it burn as I sat on the edge of the tub in my bra and underwear. I grabbed the vodka and tipped it back, trying to swallow the fear from earlier in the day.
As the flames faded, I started the shower, shedding what was left of my clothing. I scrubbed with the thin, tiny bar of complimentary soap, desperate to get the feeling of death off of me. I was a killer. I brought death. I gave the monster over to hell and I wasn't sorry. I was reckless and stupid. I slid down into the dingy porcelain tub, letting the hot water rain down on my head as I pulled my knees up against my chest. I cried until the water went cold, then wrapped myself in a grayed towel and surrendered to the fire which was left in the bottle.
Hours later, I jerked up to sitting in bed, the memory of a nightmare slipping away before I could grasp it.
My head was swimming, but I still could feel it, him, here.
I was not alone.
I saw the dark figure sitting in a chair in the corner, hidden in the shadows.
I eased my hand over to the bedside lamp and turned the switch.
It was him. The man in black, the man with the indistinct old Hollywood accent, the man with the white wolf tipped cane and black hair slicked back from his wrinkled, pasty face. The man with the single white jeweled ring on his finger was in my motel room, watching me.
My heart thundered in my chest. He spoke to me when I first learned...and stood by as I saved Sam Winchester...and now he was here.
"I'm very proud of you, my dear." He began. "I didn't know you had it in you, the ability to kill and the ability to heal."
I froze, speechless. He got up from his seat and stepped toward the bed, standing beside me, resting his hands across the top of his cane.
"It was quite satisfying, wasn't it? I told you, sometimes people have to die." He paused, his face blank and expressionless. "For a moment there, I thought it was going to be you." He turned around and walked toward the closed motel room door, stopping and looking back at me before he headed into the night. "I hope you realize you have more killing to do before you settle your debts with me."
I sat up in bed, catching my breath, my heart drumming. I flipped on the light, casting away the shadows. I was alone. Had I dreamed of him? Was he in my room? A heavy thud began to beat in my head. My body ached. I reached over and grabbed my phone, checking the time. It was only 5:30am. I dragged myself out of bed and downed a Gatorade, then retreated to the saggy mattress and scratchy white sheets.
I hated malls. I couldn't tolerate the shining people with generic smiles and phony sales clerks who pretended to give a damn. As I wandered through Mountain View Shopping Center looking for a makeup counter, shoppers strolled past me hunting for percentages off things they didn't need, clothes they might never wear. After the hour drive south to Fort Collins, the bottles of Gatorade and cups of coffee had finally conquered my lingering hangover. It was late afternoon. I knew I should eat, especially since the morning's nausea had passed. However, the smells that permeated most shopping malls threatened to bring the sickness back again: giant pretzels baking, flowery perfumes which stung my nose, and acrylic nail solvent that would make anyone high.
In a sparkling department store at one end of the shopping complex, I found the bright glass cases of cosmetics and beauty creams as a young woman with sleek blonde hair and dark eyeliner greeted me. I removed the woolen scarf that I used to hide the reddish purple bruises on my neck. Her eyes widened in horror and she tried to convince me to go to a women's shelter. I tried to explain, but I finally had to flash my fed ID. Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the mall satisfied, my shame hidden under concealer and foundation, a sack of Estee Lauder in my hand.
I called Dean. He told me the motel was located on Prospect Road, a place call the Embassy. He said he would be waiting in the bar. I've been to these types of places before, shoddy rooms and island-themed lounges under fake palms and tobacco-stained ceilings. But it would be better with Dean there; I wouldn't have to deal with creepy old men with combovers.
I drove up and down Prospect Road. I couldn't find the place and must be in the wrong neighborhood. On each side of the divided street, I saw three story office buildings and businesses clad in cappuccino colored paint. I nearly called Dean again, but on the third try, I found it. I rolled my eyes. He wasn't staying at "The Embassy," he had a room at Embassy Suites. My suspicion was confirmed when I spotted his black Impala nestled between rows of silver luxury cars and SUVs the color of champagne.
I walked through the sliding double doors of the Embassy Suites Fort Collins. It seemed huge with a two-story wall of windows which framed Horsetooth Mountain. As my eyes surveyed the room, I spotted Dean wearing his green field jacket over a red and white plaid flannel shirt. He strolled toward me past a gray and gold modernist fountain which trickled down from the open second floor. He smiled, but there was a weariness in his eyes that extended far beyond a few nights of poor sleep.
"How was your drive?" He asked as he leaned in to kiss me, open and full, yet restrained in the presence of the other guests. He tasted like whiskey and his week-old beard tickled my face.
"Fine." I smiled back at Dean after we pulled away from each other.
He raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the adjoining room to the right. "Happy hour. Free drinks!" He led me into the carpeted room with a small bar in the corner. I wondered how many drinks he already had as I sat on a plush, sage armchair. Instead of sitting in the matching seat across from me, he picked up the empty tumbler off the glass table and asked what I wanted to drink.
"Which bank did you rob to afford this place?" I teased when he returned from the bar.
He glared at me. "I don't rob banks. That was fake me."
"I remember."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I forgot. You know all about me and I know hardly anything about you." He took a drink from his glass.
"Totally not true." I argued. "You know everything important there is to know about me. And I have no idea what you did after Bobby died."
He looked away and nearly smiled, then met my eyes. "I hunted down the bastard who killed him, then I spent a year in Purgatory."
"Figuratively or literally?"
"Which do you think?" He finished his drink.
"Wow. Purgatory. I thought that was another myth. What was it like?"
He tipped back the tumbler and finished his whiskey. "It was bloody and brutal, hunting down every son of a bitch I sent down there and killing them again."
"Them?"
"Vampires, werewolves, all the goddamned monsters."
"Kind of like a cop going to prison."
"Yeah." Dean paused and stared at his empty glass. "Except I liked it." He stood up and took both of our tumblers to the bar.
I knew I should just leave it alone, but I couldn't. For that split second, I had seen it, that flicker in his eyes, fierce and feral as he remembered slaying beasts condemned to that dim world. He turned back from the bar and winked at me.
"Why did you like it?" I asked as he handed me the glass, this time a double. I took a long swallow before setting it down.
Dean looked down and laughed, then took a drink before speaking, his eyes distant. "It was different there. They couldn't hide behind human smiles and I didn't have to pretend to be something I wasn't. It was stealth and survival and slicing those bastards apart, none of the other crap that gets in the way."
It might have been the alcohol, but as we locked eyes, I went there with him. I imagined gazing into Dean's murderous stare as he butchered evil creatures he had banished from the earth. I envisioned him covered in sweat and dirt and blood, delivering vengeance, swift and sure and one with his blade.
I wanted him so bad, anticipating the waves of pleasure that would soon ripple through my naked body.
Dean caught it in my stare. His gaze bore into me, through me, the intensity growing in his eyes until he clenched his jaw.
"There's a darkness in you, Dean Winchester."
"Yeah?"
"And I like it." I poured back my drink, keeping my eyes on his.
The corner of his mouth turned up for a second. "Are you ready to go upstairs?"
