Chapter 10 - what runs in the blood

There was no time for Sam to explain, no time to do anything but move, and hope that he survived later to explain and apologize.

Sam turned, slammed his right shoulder hard against Bobby's chest, felt the sharp exhale of air as the older man took the blow. Bobby cursed as his shots went wide, stitched a pattern on the far wall that just missed that bastard wearing John Winchester's form. Sam took another look, just to make sure.

The thing bellowed at Dean, it was yelling, trying to call him back. Sam wasn't sure, but he thought he caught a glimmer of fear in those fake hazel eyes.

Good.

Dean charged right at them, snarling and growling. His ruff bushed out thick and wild around his shoulders. His ears laid flat against his head, and death was in his eyes.

Oh God, Sam thought, I hope this works.

Bobby stumbled backwards, and Sam hit him again, harder this time, threw his greater height and weight into the blow. Bobby went sprawling backwards just as Anya jumped into Dean's path.

Dean rammed into the black dog, sunk his jaws into the side of her neck and shook her like she was a rag doll. After he ravaged her throat he snapped at her front forelegs. Bone snapped and blood flew, and as soon as she was down Dean seemed to immediately forget about her.

He only had eyes for Bobby. Sam recognized that look in Dean's eyes; he'd seen that same intense gunsight of a gaze on too many hunts, saw how Dean handled multiple threats, smoothly, without effort.

Now Dean switched focus. Since Sam stood between him and Bobby, Sam was next.

Dean slammed into him, and they both fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Dean was on top, just as solid and muscular as he'd ever been when he was two legged. Sam hit the floor on his ass with a solid thump that traveled all the way up his spine and made his tailbone ache.

Sometimes, when things went south, Sam's mind latched onto small details. He never did know why. As he fell back he saw a bit of bronze metal nestled in Dean's fur, about chest level.

Amulet, Sam thought dazedly as he stared at the little screaming metal face. Bastard gave him an amulet to wear.

"Damn it, Sam---" Bobby cursed. The hair at the back of his neck rose up. He could feel the nuzzle of Bobby's assault rifle tracking up his back.

Towards Dean.

Sam put his right arm up to block as Dean lunged for his throat. Dean's eyes were glowing now, a peculiar bright golden green color. Sam barely felt it when Dean clamped his jaws around the cast. It was an awkward fit, but Dean managed to open his jaws wide enough just fine.

Shit. Shit! Sam bulled his way upright, braced himself on the floor with his left arm, flexed his shoulders, made himself as wide as he could to block Bobby's shot.

Dean pushed and snarled against him. He rabbit kicked with both hind legs against Sam's belly, tore long slash marks into Sam's jacket and shirt with his nails. He wanted Sam's throat, but any part he could reach on the way would do. It was a typical Dean Winchester move, take the action in close and see how his opponent handled it. That much hadn't changed about him.

Something dark flicked in Dean's eyes. His eyes went to slits as he sunk his teeth deeper into the cast, shook his head from side to side in a sawing motion.

Sam screamed.

He could hear it when his bones snapped again, heard this bright, quick sound, and a part of his mind, the still calm, rational part, untouched by the pain thought, Okay now, adult gray wolves have a bite of 10,000 pounds per square inch, and Dean's a lot bigger than that. Huh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, hotshot.

Too late now.

It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, a white hot flare of pain that sizzled the air around him.

Even so, there was a moment of disconnect. Dean looked almost…well, happy. His eyes were half closed, and Sam could almost believe that Dean was somebody's pet in a sunlit backyard somewhere, contentedly playing with his favorite chew toy.

Dean shook his head back and forth, and now Sam's arm was looking frayed around the edges, plaster flew up in chunks and something warm and dark and salty splashed against Sam's chin.

Please, Sam nearly moaned aloud. Please let this work. Please.

Dean tightened his grip even more, and the pain made Sam's back arch. He bellowed out his pain and fear, and the Dad thing quietly knelt down and watched.

Dean's eyes widened in shock, and in that instant Sam knew.

Dean blinked. He was two legged again.

"Your, uh, half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin' cold over here, Francis."

Now four.

…pleasepleaseplease…

The woman's name was Leslie. He could taste her.

Leslie Hardy. He remembered that now.

She screamed and cried, begged for her life.

Dean remembered smiling as he ripped her apart.

"You think Sammy's old enough to play football yet, Champ?"

"No, Daddy," four year old Dean announced solemnly. "He's too small."

He was bigger then, older, taller, and he leaned against the Impala. Life was good. Sam was here, and they were on the road again.

"Well, what exactly do you tell 'em? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doin'?"

In real time, Dean staggered backwards, all four legs wobbly, his mouth filled with salt and copper. His head filled with this angry buzzing sound, and it threatened to put him down on his knees.

"I tell 'em I'm on a road trip with my big brother. I tell 'em I needed some time off after Jess."

"Oh, so you lie to 'em."

"No. I just don't tell 'em....everything."

"Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, tellin' the truth is far worse."

Dean was tasting Sam.

He was tasting his brother's blood. His mouth was full with it, it dripped down his muzzle onto his chest. He stood there, stiff legged, shaking. No. No…Sam…

He must have whined out loud or something, because incredibly enough, despite the way his arm looked Sam had this slightly loopy smile on his face, and Dean didn't know why.

"Hey, Dean…" Sam whispered hoarsely. He struggled to sit upright, cradled his arm to his side. Bobby came over and kneeled next to him. Sam was pale, splattered with blood.

No. Dean shook his head as he backed up. I couldn't…I didn't…

The Dad thing sighed as it stood up. "Well, Samuel," it rumbled out loud. "Clever boy."

Bobby raised up on one knee, aimed, and fired several rounds at it. The thing laughed.

"Doesn't matter." It motioned almost lazily at the bloody holes in its chest. They closed up almost immediately. Wang-mei stared at Dean fondly, like a man admiring his pet, his possession, and that set Sam's teeth on edge, despite the haze of pain that surrounded him. "He still belongs to me. I'll just have to make some changes inside him, that's all."

Dean didn't react to the gunshots. He was frozen in place, swamped by the sounds and images that surged behind his eyes.

Hands grabbed at his fur, he tasted skin slick with blood and fear and sweat.

Trucker Dude…

No. Oh God, no…

Harlan Gates was his name.

Dean could smell sickness in him, creeping through his skin, the early stages of prostate cancer. He was a long haul trucker out of Dallas, Texas. He thought about home as Dean ripped into him, wondered whether his wife would be able to manage things without him.

No, Dean thought. No. He shook his head with each backward step he took. His tail was hung limp between his legs, and he moaned, low and rough and desperate.

Killed 'em…killed 'em both…

"As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you."

…and I nearly killed Sam…

No.

Nooooo....

Dean threw back his head and howled.

Wang-mei laughed.

Dean turned in the direction of that voice. His lips skinned back from his teeth. A ripple ran through his body, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.

Son of a bitch, I'll fucking kill you ---

"Seriously?" Wang-mei rumbled with amusement. "And what just happened to make you think things had changed in your favor, Dean?"

Dean was less than two feet away when the amulet strung around his neck began to glow. His heart skittered sideways like a frightened foal. He felt it then, a screeching sound that pierced his muscles through and through, scrambled his nerves. Dean stumbled as his legs gave out on him. He couldn't breathe, he jerked and shuddered. There was smoke in the air all around him, scrid, smelled like singed fur and flesh, and it took him several seconds to realize that what was burning was him.

"That's much better," Wang mei purred. Its face shifted now, from John Winchester, then melting and shifting into a flat surface that shone like a mirror. Then the mirror darkened as double sets of fangs and bulging eyes pushed through the surface. Streamers of dark and light snapped through the air like banners in a high wind.

Dean lay on his side, panting weakly. His legs paddled restlessly but all he could do was snarl weakly. Wang-mei bent over and dug his fingers into the thick fur at the back of his neck. Dean struggled, but his fur retreated inside him as he was lifted up. He was two legged and broken again, and it stared at him in wonder.

"You broke yourself," Wang-mei wondered aloud. It lowered him back down onto the floor, almost as gently as Sam or Bobby would have.

It turned and looked at Sam and Bobby and chuckled. Both hands grew, turned into long, twisted black claws.

"Got some business to take care of," it said, sounding so much like John Winchester it made Dean's heart ache. "I'm not gonna leave you, Dean. Not now, not ever."

It looked at Anya and smiled. "Looks like you're good for something after all. You'll make a fine pair."

Bobby pulled Sam back, raised the assault rifle once more, probably for the last time in this life as the thing walked towards them.

The more pets he has, the more powerful he becomes, she whispered softly. Even with one. I'm the last.

Bobby blinked in surprise at the other voice inside his head.

I'm the anchor. Wang-mei will claim Dean again, and his link to this reality will double. Break the ties that bind him here. Kill me.

Sam could hear it too; Bobby could tell by the way the kid's eyes widened. He was awkward and half out of his head with pain and shock. But Sam was still younger, taller, and heavier. His only disadvantage was his broken right arm, and Bobby fought dirty, dug his fingers into Sam's arm and tried not to flinch as he felt bones shift in his grip.

"Bobby, you can't ---"

Good-bye, Sam.

Anya struggled up, bleeding.

Bobby pointed the assault rifle and emptied the clip into her.

The Dad thing died howling.

Its mouth stretched open, impossibly wide. Every window in the place, even the glass panels in the doors, exploded outward in a spray of silver. Skin and clothes ran together, blurred into twisting, shifting ribbons of light and dark. The air boiled with gale force winds, packed into an impossibly tight space. The floor directly beneath cracked and darkened.

The noise and wind seemed to go on forever, and Sam crouched there. He ignored Bobby and everything else, ignored the way the air twisted and turned on itself until the snap of bright light at the end was so bright and so violent Sam closed his eyes against it.

Everything was quiet then. Just as quiet as Dean was, laying naked on his side a few feet away.

Sam opened his eyes, blinked away the double images he saw. He grit his teeth against the pain in his arm, as he stumbled forward to kneel by his brother.

"Dean, I'm here." Sam hissed as he pulled his jacket off. He covered Dean with it as best he could, as Bobby stood up warily. He popped another clip into the rifle, and waited for something else to show up.

Nothing did. There was only Anya's body, the scattered remains of the dogs.

And Dean.

Dean breathed. He took a great hitching breath of air when Sam covered him. His body was crisscrossed with long scratches and slashes and bite marks. Sam glanced at Dean's left arm, at the bone that stuck up through the pale freckled skin of his arm.

"Bu," Dean whispered roughly.

"What?"

"Dead," Dean croaked. "...should stay...dead..."

Sam looked up. "Bobby?"

The older man nodded grimly. "We're clear." He looked down at Anya's body, and his expression softened a little. "We better haul ass just in case."

"S-Sam-mm…"

"Dude, I'm here."

Dean's eyes opened, a slow, heavy blink. His lips moved. Sam heard the words, but he didn't believe what he was hearing. "What did you say?"

Dean sighed. He gathered himself, and this time his voice was a little louder. "…kill me…"

A/N: This is the beginning of the comfort phase. Bobby and Sam have their work cut out for them, because Dean doesn't believe he deserves comfort or mercy after what he did. Maximum Dean angst ahead.

Hope everyone is having a safe, wonderful holiday! I'm headed out of town on a surprise road trip. I will be back Tuesday and will post Fresh Meat and other updates then.