Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural, darn it! I also did not create Fox River Penitentiary, either; that belongs to Prison Break. Sorry. I only mention the place.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap
Author's Notes: To heather03nmg, and you other kind folks who emailed me privately (y'all know who you are): I think I might have spooked some of you guys with that imagery of Dean apparently turning into a coyote in the last chapter.
Since I caused this confusion, let me take this opportunity to clear it up:
This is not the Supernatural version of "The Shaggy Dog." In addition to being a Trickster, Coyote is also a shapeshifter, so the guy does go all furry and four legged sometimes, but I'm focusing mainly on the struggle between him and Dean. Coyote's the part of Dean that Dean doesn't want to deal with, and if you stick with me you'll soon see why. Coyote looks at Dean the exact same way. They are one and the same. They're both stubborn bastards and neither one is going to give an inch.
Think "Sybil", with Sally Field, or better yet, "The Dark Phoenix Saga," and I'm talking about the X-Men classic comic version, not that lousy Bret Ratner X3 movie. This is about two sides of the same soul waging war against each other.
Dean Winchester will not be going around sniffing other dogs' butts.
It'll be okay. I promise. Well, sort of. (Hazgarn, I'm just messing with you.)
To BlackIceAngel, and princesspeanut: I'm clearing up some of the stuff you probably wondered about before, in this chapter. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get around to it, and I'll probably give you some new stuff to wonder about, too.
I'm numbering each section in each chapter from now on. Fanfiction dropped the lines I was using to separate the sections.
Dog Eat Dog
Chapter 8: Suicide by Fugly
One
Singer's Auto Yard
South Dakota
It was damn bad, Bobby Singer thought. Had to be.
Because Sam Winchester sounded like a dead man on the phone.
"Bobby, I lost Dean."
"Wait a minute, Sam. What did you say?"
"Dean's gone. We were on a job over in McCoy, Indiana." That lifeless tone in Sam's voice lifted the hair at the back of Bobby's head. "Animal attacks. Not normal. Dean got hurt and they took him. I got him out."
"Who took Dean?""The cops. To the mayor's house."
There wasn't any need to try to draw this conversation out. There were only two other things Bobby needed to know before he hung up. He crossed the room, fished around in the corner, and tossed a duffel bag onto the table. The damn thing was already packed – holy water, amulets, silver ammo, flares, other items he'd found useful on the hunt.
"Where's Dean now? You said he's gone. Sam, is Dean dead?"
"No. He's gone." Bobby turned to the bookcase and pulled down his copy of the Key of Solomon. He scanned the shelves, then reached up and pulled out six more books, a couple more talismans and charms, and stuffed them all inside the duffel bag alongside the Key.
He held the cordless phone to his ear as he went into the kitchen and pulled plastic bags filled with wolfbane, yew, and other herbs out of the refrigerator. He pulled out a couple of stakes made from rowan wood. These went into the duffel too.
"Okay." Now the last thing: "Sam, where the hell are you now?"Four minutes later Bobby Singer was in his truck hauling ass for Vashon, Illinois. Condie, a big black German Shepherd mixed breed, rode shotgun in the truck beside him. She was a damn fine tracker, and ornery as hell.
Two
Roadway Inn
Vashon, Illinois
It was one of the nicest places he had ever been in, but Sam hardly noticed. The desk clerk stared at him; she couldn't help herself. What in the hell could have happened to this tall, handsome kid to age him so much in the last twenty four hours? Sam stared at her, dull-eyed, while she recited the room rates. When she asked him how many beds he needed, he said "two" and she looked past him to see if anyone else was standing there.
She gave him double beds anyway.
Sam didn't even remember handing her the credit card; the next thing he knew he was standing in front of Room 19A. He stared blankly at the nameplate on the door, then at the numbers stamped on the key. It was several moments before he realized that both sets of numbers matched.
He made sure the Impala was locked up and secure. He went back out and checked it. Twice. Dean would kill him if anything happened to his precious baby. Sam carried his laptop and his duffel inside. He brought in Dean's duffel next and laid it gently on the bed nearest the door.
He brought in Dean's clothes and boots last.
Sam didn't salt the windows and doors. He didn't eat anything. He'd left all that at the supermarket down the street.
Sam laid down on his bed, and he hugged Dean's leather jacket like it was a security blanket. He buried his nose in the leather, inhaled Dean's scent. When he closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting off he imagined Dean's deep, smooth voice in the quiet of the room: Damn, since when did you become such a girl, Samantha?
Sam knew he was fooling himself.
He could have dealt with Dean bitten. Turned into some creature that howled and snarled at the moon. Dean possessed, Dean driven insane…that was stuff that Sam could wrap his head around, scenarios he could deal with. But this…Dean gone, taken from him again, the second time in nearly twenty four hours ---
I want to stay, but he won't let me…
--- it was all too much. Sam didn't care if those Ilimu, whatever the hell they were, climbed thru the windows, came thru the doors and walked or slithered right up to the bed and tapped him on the shoulder.
Sam was alone. He was the last and the least, and right at this very moment he just didn't want to go on anymore.
You could call it suicide by fugly, and right now Sam Winchester just didn't give a damn.
Three
Bissette, Illinois
That was one damn big German Shepherd in the back of that police cruiser. Bobby Gentry cast an appreciative eye at the dog as he rounded the back of the car. Even though it was at rest the dog lifted its head and looked around alertly. It cocked its ears and stared back at Gentry, and it was probably just a trick of the light and shadows, but its eyes seemed awfully black and shiny.
He could appreciate a purebred Shepherd, though; he had two of them at home.
Bobby finished pumping the gas, and walked up to the driver's side to swipe the card the cop had in his hand. "That's a nice looking dog you got there."
"Thanks. He's a good one."
"You're a long way from Crawford, aren't 'cha?
"K9 competition up in Allenville."
"Oh, that's right down the road, near Vashon."
The thing inside John Chambers smiled. "As the crow flies, yeah."
Four
Prosser's Gas 'N' Stop
I-20 – Ketchum, Illinois
It was an out of the way crappy little gas station, the kind where the security cameras didn't work, and the counter should have had some sort of glass barrier but didn't and you took your life in your hands if you worked the night shift, day shift, hell, any damn shift. Sunlight slanted weakly thru the dingy front windows, and the cars that sped by on I-20 were wisely passing the place by, in favor of the MegaGasMart down the road.
James Everett Daley, recently paroled and needing money for his…living expenses, pushed the shotgun in the clerk's face and squinted in the harsh overhead lights at the open cash register drawer.
Forty three fucking dollars and twenty seven cents. He pawed around in the drawer with his broad oversized fingers, as though this had to be some mistake, a joke, and not a very fucking funny one, either.
It was no joke.
Daley's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the clerk could tell his time on earth was numbered. As in minutes. Seconds, even. Daley grinned and steadied the shotgun, just as that stupid bell on the front door jangled and this kid wearing a long brown leather jacket and blue jeans walked in.
Daley pulled his revolver out of his waistband and pushed it into the punk's face. The shotgun never wavered from the clerk. "Get your hands up now, damn it!"
The kid backed up a little, blinked those green eyes of his slowly, and raised his hands. He still seemed awful calm for someone who'd walked in on an armed robbery. Chances were pretty good he wouldn't walk back out.
Neither of them would. The clerk was a tall, skinny drink of water, a sophomore at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville named Ronnie Eisley, and Ronnie was already mentally kicking himself for not taking the job at the MegaGasMart. His girl friend Yvonne convinced him to take this job, said that everyone had to do their part in supporting small businesses against giant monopolies.
Like the MegaGasMart.
Man, if he survived this did he have a few choice words for her.
Daley leaned over, stared past the new kid at the black sedan parked outside. Some old white haired guy sat stiffly in the front passenger seat. Indiana plates. Seemed kind of odd for a kid like this to be pushing a ride like that. He'd have figured this punk for a Mustang, Camaro, or Firebird. Something fast and slick. "That your car?"
The kid didn't answer. He tilted his head to one side, stared Daley up and down, and Daley didn't like that look. What, was this bastard gay or something? It was like Daley was being judged, measured for something, and it made him want to smash that pretty face in.
Not yet.
"I said, that your car?" Daley grated, and the dangerous, low tone in his voice finally seemed to get this kid's attention.
"Yeah."
"Looks like a cop car. You a cop?"
The kid smirked. "No."
"Let me see some ID," Daley said stupidly.
The kid quirked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Wait a minute. You're the one holding up a gas station, and you want to see my ID?"
Those smartass remarks stopped coming out of that pretty mouth when Daley thumbed the revolver's hammer back.
Well, to hell with the ID. Daley was six feet six and weighed three hundred, easy. Anytime he couldn't handle a couple of punk kids and one old sugar daddy was the day he should hang it up, head on back to Fox River Penitentiary and knock on the door so they'd let him back in to finish up some really hard prison time.
"Who's the old white haired guy in the car?"
That cocky attitude vanished immediately. "That's -- that's my dad. Please, mister, just take my wallet. I got money. Credit cards. You don't have to bother him. He's been sick lately." And there was a touch of fear in those wide green eyes at last.
Daley liked that.
The sound of the shotgun going off was louder than it is in the movies. Ronnie Eisley's body hit the floor behind the counter with a heavy thump. His resentment against his girl friend would have to wait until she caught up with him in the afterlife.
Pretty boy stared at Daley.
"You, me, and Papa are going on a little trip." The revolver never moved from the center of the kid's face. Daley grinned as he stepped back, placed the shotgun on the counter and scooped up the forty three dollars and change. It was an insult to a professional like him, but, hey, a dollar was a dollar. "If you're nice, and I mean real nice to me, I won't hurt you. Much. I might just let you and Daddy go. I might."
None of that mattered anymore. Those green eyes shifted, turned shiny pitch black, and the kid was suddenly right up in Daley's face. He slapped the revolver out of Daley's hand with one hand and the other hand curled tightly around Daley's throat. He was five inches taller, a hell of a lot heaver, yet he was easily lifted off his feet. The heels of Daley's work boots kicked against the scuffed front counter wall. His eyes bulged and he flailed wildly, groping for the shotgun, and the kid laughed, a low, rough sound. Daly's fingers brushed against the gun butt, and it was yanked out from under his hand by something he couldn't see.
The kid cocked his head to one side. "Geez, dude, I'm so glad you're not gonna hurt me," he drawled mockingly. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
Daley crashed into the refrigerated soda case on the far wall so hard he was barely aware of the sound his spine made as it snapped in two. Behind his back glass shattered and plastic bottles of soda and water exploded, fell out and bounced all around him. He slid brokenly down the shelves in slow motion, his feet and legs hanging limply out of the case.
He heard the front door bell jangle thru the gray haze that was settling over him, and he was barely able to make out the kid as he stood there. Damn punk held the door open and several mangy stray dogs wandered in, along with a cat or two. They stared intently at Daley. They padded along the dirty tile floor and made a beeline straight for him.
When the first dog came up to him, reared up and placed its paws on his shoulders and pressed its cold muzzle to his gasping mouth, Daley couldn't even scream.
Several minutes later the Ilimu posing as Dean Winchester walked out of the gas station followed by the newly possessed body of one James Everett Daley. There were thirteen Ilimu crowded in the space beneath Daley's skin, and his body moved in a flat footed shamble. It swung its arms out to the side, like a drunk imitating the way a chimpanzee walks. Daley's face rippled; something dark slid just below the surface of his skin. He shambled along to the rear door of the car and after fumbling with the door handle for some moments he was finally able to figure out how to open the back door and slide in the back seat.
The Ilimu imitating Dean Winchester scowled and shook his head as he unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and backed the sedan out and smoothly merged with the traffic on the highway. A sound from the back seat made him glance in the rear view mirror at Daley's black eyes. He used Winchester's face extremely well; the death glare he directed towards them in the rearview mirror made them settle down, and Daley's eyes went back to a dazed washed out brown color.
He didn't have time to coddle or baby-sit these fools, but there was no way around it. It was shaping up to be a long chase, and unless you entered the body of a bird of flight to make up the distance it was best to stick to humans until you got close enough for the kill. You could drive a car if you had a human body, something these idiots had forgotten in the thrill of the chase. He was on a tight schedule, and stopping to pick up stragglers like these could only slow him down.
If he saw any more idiots like these at the side of the road, tribe or no tribe, he was very tempted to just run them over and keep on going. Besides, he wanted to be there before the brothers were surrounded; otherwise, what was the point?
He liked the cars these humans drove, and he could certainly appreciate the highways and interstates. Good escape routes, and plenty of cars and humans to jump to. Malls were good hunting grounds, and a beast with a face and body like Dean Winchester's could do a lot of damage.
After the hunt was over he planned on doing just that.
If he had his way there would have been a thinning of the ranks, a culling of the herd, so to speak. He didn't have much tolerance for the inexperienced and downright stupid, and Lucifer knows demons were like humans, and they could be both. He glanced at the older white haired one sitting in the passenger seat and suddenly felt like ripping the old one's head off. He couldn't. There was such a thing as respecting your elders, and that was something he did grudgingly.
Very grudgingly.
"This is a chance for you to redeem yourself." The young one's tone was harsh, disrespectful. "There were two of you down in that sewer, you and your bitch, and the two of you couldn't even take down one human."
The older one's eyes shifted to his lap. The one wearing the Winchester skin was hundreds of years old, but the white haired one was even older than that. The other knew that Winchester's face and body made the elder nervous. He didn't know why, and he didn't give a damn.
"He…he has power." The old one knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. He closed his eyes. The young one shook his head and made a disgusted sound deep in his throat. "Do you realize how pathetic you sound? Do you?" His voice was a low angry snarl and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The old one saw himself back in the sewer, on all fours, watching as Dean Winchester lunged for the pistol on the floor. He didn't know why he didn't just reach out and claw the boy then, but …he hung back. Foolish. Stupid. Human green eyes locked on his reddish orange ones, and that split second gave the hunter time to shoot. The darkness down there gave no cover.
The old one yelped as silver rounds hit him in the chest, head and shoulder. The female Ilimu inside the stray dog snarled and ripped the skin on Winchester's back with her claws. The boy bit back a scream of terror and rage, and the old one heard yelling and roaring and gunshots. When his vision cleared he saw its mate lying on top of the hunter. The old one limped forward when he saw the human's hand twitch.
He could still rip out the bastard's throat.
Winchester's eyes opened, and something more than human looked out at the world, wide-eyed, startled. Those green eyes nearly glowed in the dark. The hunter raised his arm jerkily, as though he'd forgotten how, and he put his hand on the female's forehead. Thick oily black smoke boiled out of the coarse black fur, lifted up into the gloom and broke apart into curling wisps of dead air.
Dean Winchester's eyes closed, and his arm dropped limply back down to his side.
The old one backed away. He ran, limping, stumbling.
The others had no respect for the elder, because they thought he was a coward. He knew one thing, though: arrogance will get you killed.
And if arrogance killed the Ilimu wearing the hunter's face, the elder hoped that he would be around to see it.
Five
Vashon, Illinois
Maureen Reddington knew she was special. He told her so, in her dreams. He understood her, encouraged her, even when everyone around her told her that she was a freak, a monster. His yellow eyes flashed when he told her that she had to leave her family, that her mother and father had already signed the commitment papers and that room in the mental hospital was ready and waiting for her. That day Maureen picked up her backpack and didn't look back.
Before she left, though, she showed her parents just how much of a "freak" she really was. She used her special gift, and she slipped inside her mother's and father's heads for a little chat.
When the story hit the news later that day the news anchors called it a murder-suicide.
Well, she'd never really liked her parents anyway.
The yellow eyed man came to her in a dream last night, told her that she had to call off work as receptionist at the doctor's office the next day. There was something she needed to do, someone she had to see, but he wanted her to use a gentle touch on this one. He was special, just like she was, but he was tired and confused. He needed to be protected, from himself, and from others.
She didn't exactly understand about the bags of salt, but she didn't question.
Sam Winchester didn't move when the key slid into the door lock. He stirred a little, but Sam's sleep was deep, black and dreamless. Partly due to exhaustion, partly due to grief.
Maureen moved quietly. She'd "convinced" the desk clerk to give her the key. She stared at Sam, and she very gently pushed him deeper into sleep. Once the connection between them was made, she very quietly laid salt lines at the windows, and as she did, images swept into her mind.
She poured the salt down straight out of the bag, and tried to ignore the unpleasant way her skin tingled when stray grains of salt touched her skin.
She finished up quickly, laid one last salt line at the door.
She kept the room key.
Just in case.
Maureen walked across the parking lot and got into the front seat of the County Cab parked there. The cabbie's name was Dmitri Landowski, a recent immigrant from Poland, but his eyes had a certain yellow glint behind the dark shades. She opened her mind to him, and he smiled.
The eldest was gone. Swept away by this power inside him.
Imagine that.
The next time he saw John Winchester down in Hell, he'd have to tell him, John, your boys continually amaze me.
It was a shame about the older brother. The yellow eyed one had plans for him, too, but those plans were fairly simple: agony, blood and slow torture, ending with Dean Winchester screaming to be put out of his misery, begging for death. Over a year ago Dean shot and killed the demon's son, shot him dead with a bullet from that damn Colt. The day before the demon's daughter was exorcised from the body of Meg Masters, sent screaming and cursing back to Hell, and Dean was responsible for that, too.
The daughter clawed her way up from Hell about a month ago, and after she was driven out of Sam Winchester's body she wandered aimlessly, angry, rageful. She didn't care about the master plan anymore, so he had no use for her.
He had plenty of use for Samuel. He had even grown fond of the boy.
He shielded Samuel in the tunnel from the humans in McCoy. He masked the boy's presence so he was invisible to their feeble senses. The old Ilimu was no problem. He nearly injured himself all over again trying to get away.
The yellow eyed one had a special affinity with the wind and with weather patterns. He was the wind near the highway that night, as that hawk swirled and looped overhead, and he heard its thoughts when the damn thing moved towards Sam with its claws out. He wrapped himself around the bird, trapped it inside the flesh and feathers, and slammed it headfirst into a tree.
Ilimu. His lip curled in disgust. Tribal bastards. Several of his special children years ago had fallen prey to Ilimu hunters, so naturally the demon struck back. Examples were made on both sides. Samuel Winchester was his, always had been. He was the brightest of the demon's precious few.
He would protect his investment, no matter what.
Six
Norwood State Hospital
Norwod, Kansas
He missed the feel of sand underneath his feet. The floors here were too white, too slick underneath his bare feet. Thick wire screens on the windows, and that made him feel trapped. He hated that feeling, but compared to being confined behind that dark wall, this wasn't that bad.
This place was too white, too sterile. Even the people in charge wore white, and they growled all the time. He stared blankly at them, and he did what he was told. Stand up, stand still, move over here. The others like him were dressed in blue, and some of them cried and screamed. Some of them sat at the tables and bumped their heads repeatedly against the tabletops. Others, like that tall, shaggy haired kid, just sat slumped over in the corner and stared blankly.
Some of them, though, were different. Some of them had this barely concealed energy inside of them, and he wondered why the ones in charge didn't see it. Too stupid, maybe, or too dull.
That was something he could use.
There was one in particular he had to watch out for. She was a blue. He sat on the floor in a corner of the rec room, just watching everybody else, trying to decide how to start. She was small and dark haired, and her grey eyes were too light and pale. She walked right up and kneeled down in front of him, and she stared at him. He stared back. She didn't touch him; she seemed to know better. "So pretty," she muttered to herself. She cocked her head to one side, and a slight smile pulled at her lips. "Such a pretty boy," she cooed. "Green eyes. Eyes are the windows of the soul, and the two of you only have one soul between you."
He blinked slowly. Damn, was it that obvious?
Son of a bitch.
She seemed to flinch slightly when he stared hard right back at her, but then she smiled and stood up. He watched her as she walked across the room, and he saw it when she glanced down at the floor. A brown leather wallet stuffed with cash appeared out of thin air on the floor to her right. She looked up and glanced over at two of the orderlies in white, and they both spotted the wallet at the same time.
The fight was on. Fists flew and in a matter of moments the two in white were rolling around on the floor. More whites swarmed in to break it up, and some of the more stupid blues tried to get in on it, too. He sat there and watched.
He nearly laughed out loud.
Ah, he knew a trick when he saw one.
