Chapter 9
The smoke hung around the poker table like a curtain, all of the monsters held their forks and knives in varying states of stares, some with steak at the end of their forks, some with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. Every one of them was speechless.
Eddie took a slow breath, wiping his face with both of his hands, and then pushed his long, black hair out of his eyes. His eyes were wet, and he was doing everything he could to control his breathing. Telling that story again, after so many years, did nothing but bring back the scores of rage he held tightly in his chest. There was absolutely nothing he or Bertie would have been able to do back then. The Browning sisters would have killed them too.
Beside him, his mate held her face in her hands, breathing heavily through tears.
"How long's it been?" Pete asked softly, his gruff voice gentle for the first time.
Taking a ragged breath, Eddie leaned back in his chair. "Eleven years," Eddie whispered.
Nodding slowly, Pete stabbed the last bite of steak on his plate with his knife and held it to his mouth, considering it momentarily as juice dripped to his plate. "Eleven years," Pete repeated. Nodding slowly, he pushed the piece of meat into his mouth and chewed, still staring at the knife. "The Browning girls know their shit. They're some of the best hunters in the world, trained by their daddy and blessed with a certain set of skills that ain't necessarily human."
"You said that before," Glenn hissed. "What's that even mean, not human? They monsters too?"
Pete clicked his tongue. "There's some rumors floating around, since before the Apocalypse, that Grace Browning is a chosen person. That she's a cosmic being."
"And the sister?"
Shrugging, Pete lit another cigarette. "Her too," was all he said.
The monsters at the table turned to each other, discussing the latest turn of events among themselves. Finally, Glenn cleared his throat. "What about you, Pete?" he grunted. "Said you had yourself a story, too."
"I got lots of stories."
"About the Brownings?"
Pete pursed his lips. With the hand that held the cigarette, he gestured to the scars along the side of his face that ran down his neck, partially hidden by the rugged and wild, bristly gray beard. "About the Brownings," he agreed, nodding.
"You gonna tell us?"
Pete took a long drag of his cigarette and made a face, shaking his head once. "Nah, we already know the Browning girls are scary as shit."
Eddie leaned on his elbows to try and see the elder, "Then who? Who's worse than the Brownings?"
The poker table was silent, waiting with lungs full of air, for Pete to reveal his story. Slowly, Pete stubbed out his cigarette and took a long breath, steadying himself for the next tale. He lowered his head and tilted it to one side, popping his neck loudly.
"Well?" Eddie pressed. "We don't got all night. Who's worse?"
Pete's dark eyes flicked up to Eddie predatorily, a low growl escaping his lips. "Who's worse?" he repeated. "The fucking Winchesters."
The entire bar went silent, turning to stare at Pete with their mouths hanging open. "Pete," Nannette whispered, her voice cautious. "Ain't no one around, still livin' to tell about the Winchesters."
"I am."
…
Pete Tucker had been human once. He knew he had been, but it had been so many years since he remembered being in control, it didn't seem real anymore. He spent his life hunting now, out in the wilderness, picking off hitchhikers and women of the night. He chose a solitary lifestyle, not having to worry about anyone but himself.
His wanderings recently had taken him to a poor, dilapidated town in northern Idaho. The pine trees swayed in the autumn breeze and the chill bit through his coat. There was a new smell on the air; one of adrenaline and testosterone. Earlier, Pete had decided that it was time to move on, away from the town, but this new smell caught his attention.
Slowly, he made his way back towards the edge of town, keeping himself to the outskirts as much as he could, hiding himself in the tree line. Eventually, he found himself in the parking lot of a run down, by-the-hour motel and watched two young men get out of a glossy, black, classic muscle car. The shorter of the two stretched, reaching high above him from side to side and turning to the taller and smiling. As he stretched, the butt of a gun was barely visible in the waistband of the young man's jeans.
Hunters.
Pete had attacked and successfully destroyed too many of their kind to count, and he smiled to himself, thinking about how much better they tended to taste. The adrenaline that coursed through their system on a regular basis made them sweeter, somehow.
The taller of the two men ran a hand through his long hair and opened the trunk, reaching in and grabbing two duffels, momentarily facing the same direction where Pete hid among the trees. The tall hunter hesitated, narrowing his eyes and attempting to see into the darkness, forcing Pete to step back, further into the shadows.
"Hey, Dean," the tall hunter called quietly to his companion. "Did you see that?"
Turning, Dean squinted into the darkness. "See what?"
"There was something there, in the tree line. Big."
Pete moved closer to the tree and did his best to be as small as possible. The only reason he waited in the trees was to see which room the hunters ended up in, but more and more, his desire to flee was growing.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean patted his shoulder. "Let's get some shut-eye and we can start with the new big bad in the morning."
Tilting his head at the recognition of the names, Pete Tucker smiled. Sam and Dean Winchester were well known in the monster world, mostly for leaving no survivors. It would be his pleasure to make sure that tradition stopped with him.
…
"Newspaper says there were three bodies found out near the lumber yard," Sam Winchester explained as Dean brushed his teeth the next morning. "All of them missing their hearts. Ripped out right through their chest."
Lifting his left eyebrow, Dean nodded, then leaned forward to spit out the foam of his toothpaste. "Just like we thought," he answered. "Werewolf."
"Or werewolves."
Shrugging, Dean used the towel that draped around his neck to dry his hair. "Could be," he answered his brother. "Seems more like one, though. Just busy." He hung his towel on the edge of the door and walked to the bed, pulling on a plain black tee shirt. "Well," Dean continued, "how're we playin' this? In and out? Feds?" He picked up a crumbled blue plaid flannel and put it on. "Red Lips really caught my eye last night. She's gonna be waiting for me, you know."
Sam clicked his tongue and shook his head. "We're not rushing this job just so you can get laid."
Dean gave a half-hearted, good-natured shrug and picked up his car keys. "I'm hungry," Dean answered. "Pig in a poke?"
"No thanks," Sam answered. "When you're done, I want to get to tracking this wolf. We have maybe two more nights in this moon cycle before he stops phasing."
"Or she," Dean argued, lifting his eyebrows again.
A strange look passed over his younger brother's face and Dean looked away, knowing female werewolves were still a touchy subject. There were times that Dean couldn't help but bringing up times that Sam had been wrong, but there were also times he had to remind his baby brother that Dean was right more often than not.
"Yeah, well," Dean added, breaking the awkward silence. "I'm gonna go get some grub. I'll bring some rabbit food back for you."
Lifting his hand, Sam waved him off, barely looking up when his brother shut the door.
…
Tucking himself back into the trees again, Pete Tucker watched as Dean Winchester left the motel room and headed to his sleek, black Chevy Impala. He couldn't lie; he could hardly wait to put some tears in those black vinyl seats, just to toy with his next meal.
Pausing to dig the keys out of his pocket, Dean turned towards the trees where the werewolf was hiding and hesitated, almost sensing something different in the air. Pete hid in the shadows, not wanting to give away his position too soon, but he cursed to himself, knowing that he had already been made.
He had heard stories about the Winchester brothers. There were stories about how they were faster than humans should be, almost predicting attacks before they were even made. There were stories about their bullets and blades and how fiercely accurate they were; whether they were shooting lead or silver, the weapons always seemed to find their targets. There were stories about Dean's rage and Sam's attention to detail. The stories made Pete a little nervous, but if it wasn't difficult, where was the fun?
Acting nonchalant, Dean opened the door to his car and took a deep breath in through his nose, almost testing the air. Pete watched as the hunter very calmly walked to the trunk of the car and unlocked it, opened it, and used a sawed off shotgun to hold a lid open from under the deck lid. He dug around in the trunk for a couple of seconds, looking up towards the woods occasionally, humming to himself. Disappearing behind the trunk of the car again, Dean used the momentary hiding spot to empty the rounds out of his Colt forty-five automatic's clip and reload them with silver bullets. His phone vibrated against his leg and without missing a beat, he answered it, held it between his shoulder and face, and continued loading his weapon.
"Why are you still in the parking lot?" his brother's voice came over the speaker without preamble.
Dean flicked his eyes towards the window of the motel room where Sam stood, staring out from behind the curtains. "It's out here with me," he replied, almost silently.
"What, the werewolf?" Sam clicked his tongue. "It's six-thirty in the morning."
"I don't think it's operating on normal hunting hours," Dean replied, pressing his lips together. "We had a theory that this wolf seemed a bit special, didn't we?"
"Like one of Eve's creations?"
Dean shrugged half-heartedly. "Could be," he replied. "Could also be that the theories just need some tweaking."
Sam sighed into the phone.
"You gonna come out here and help me or am I hunting this thing alone?"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Sammy answered, hanging up the phone.
Dean lifted his eyebrows and mocked Sam, muttering to himself. He glanced over the trunk lid and took a deep breath, still smelling for the wolf. It was there; its musty, rust-smelling fur in desperate need of a deep clean. Something told Dean that the wolf had been shifted the entire moon phase, so lost in his blood lust that he didn't bother to be human while he could be wolf.
Using his thumb to flick the safety off the weapon, Dean nodded once to greet his brother and let the deck lid close and casually walking to the driver's side open door. "He's in the trees," Dean muttered, not looking up at Sam. "The problem is that if we take off after him, we'll lose him in the woods."
"Yeah, so how are we doing this?"
Shrugging, Dean chuckled. "How do you feel about him bringing the party to us?"
Sam turned and stared at his brother. "Not good."
"Yeah, well," he muttered, taking a deep breath. Without much warning, Dean aimed into the forest as accurately as he felt possible, firing two shots. The odds were completely stacked against him, but he felt like the werewolf was directly in front of him. He figured, if he at least got a glancing blow, the wolf would cave, giving into the rage, and come straight for the both of them. If he played his cards right, Dean would be able to sink his silver knife deep into the werewolf's chest without another shot fired.
"What are you doing?" Sam grit his teeth and hissed at Dean, whipping around the parking lot to see if anyone else came out of their motel room to see what the commotion was.
"Ours is the only car in the lot, Sammy. We're in the middle of Bumfuck, Idaho. Like you said," Dean turned and grinned. "It's six-thirty in the morning. I play my cards right," there was an audible growl, somewhere off in the distance, near the tree line, "we won't have to fire another shot."
Taking a deep breath, Dean holstered his gun and brought out a silver knife, about eight inches long. He leaned his head to each side, popping it twice. The growls in the distance got louder as Dean stepped to the side, closing his driver's side door. "Come on, Big Bad," he muttered under his breath. "I'll be your little piggy."
Sam was shaking his head as he turned to the trunk and opened it again, getting his own eight-inch silver blade. "This is bat shit, Dean."
"Probably."
The werewolf couldn't stand it anymore. His growls reverberated off the trees as he gave in to the bloodlust. More than anything, Pete wanted the Winchesters' hearts on a platter. The second shot Dean fired had been close; too close for Pete to be comfortable with. The silver had stung as it had split the skin of his bicep, and then traveled through the trees beyond where he stood.
He took off at a full sprint, hurling himself through the trees and out into the open towards the Winchester brothers. Snarling and growling as he lunged towards them, he eventually gave up keeping himself upright and collapsed to run on all fours.
As he ran, Pete could see the smug look on Dean Winchester's face, knowing that he had gotten his way and forced the werewolf out into the open. The more logical side of the wolf's brain argued with the ferocious, feral side. It seemed there would only be one way out of this: kill the Winchesters or die trying.
"Look at him go," Dean muttered, chuckling to himself. "I really pissed him off."
"Can you maybe not sound so proud of yourself?"
Clicking his tongue, Dean shrugged. "But I am," he commented, pulling the forty-five from his jeans and flicking the safety off. "No hunting necessary. Brought the party to us."
Sam couldn't help but admit he was right, "Man, he's really moving."
"Yeah, get ready."
Squaring his shoulders, Dean lifted his pistol with his left hand and though it was not his dominant hand, he took aim and fired twice, still ready with the silver knife in his right. The shots went wide, though, and only one found its target.
The werewolf yelped, stumbling once but finding his footing again almost immediately.
"Oh, here we go," Dean whispered, bracing himself for impact.
The werewolf launched himself towards the brothers, leaving the ground completely and sailing through the air towards them, fangs and claws bared as he attacked. Sam fired three times, wounding the creature in the shoulder and stomach, but it didn't even slow down. Dean turned, slicing the wolf across the chest, but not causing any mortal damage.
It was chaos.
