Since I'm a nice person and I want to be friendly for the weekend, I'm posting a long chapter today. It will get a bit ... dark. And there will be violence, from humans and animals.
Just thought I'd warn you.
"Dude, I know where to go from here…"
"Dude, I know where to go from here…"
As it had been in better times the brothers spoke in unison chuckled when they realized. Sam had been relieved to hear the roar of the car and the door was open even before Dean could do it. He was dying to tell him what he had figured out.
"Ok, you go first. I wanna know how close I came to your genius." Dean was happy to see Sam so excited about a hunt.
"Bobby called and he had never heard of something like this. He couldn't find out much, apart from the 'wild-hunt'-thing. But he agreed that the basic spirit is the man, because he directs the anger of the dogs. Without him, they would kill anybody who crosses their path – and until now that didn't happen. Sooooo – he gave me the idea that if we can't find the person who is dead already…"
"…we need to find the one who isn't yet!" Dean's grin spread over his face. He had come to the same conclusion – and he also had a very good idea, who the next victim could be.
"Red-shirt guy!" He was certain. Sam wasn't too sure.
"Dean, all the previous victims were just punters. They were nothing but regulars – why would the spirit attack the main character now? I mean, eventually he will get there, but…"
"Trust me, Sammy – I know that this will be the next one. I know!"
Involuntarily, Sam checked his brother's face. Dean noticed – annoyed.
"Come on – I haven't lost my instinct. It's as sharp as ever." He could see that Little Brother wasn't convinced.
"Look in my eyes and tell me I'm still out of it. If you think so, I'll let it go." The older brother grabbed Sam's arm when he turned away, muttering "This is stupid" under his breath.
"Come on, look!"
Reluctantly, Sam looked – and didn't find what he feared he would. There was a slightly different intensity behind the pupils, a special glow, only noticeable when you knew those eyes. But there was no doubt, no pain or fear or hidden lies.
This was Dean – his Dean. Pissed and ready to kick ass.
He averted his face to hide the tremendous relief that must have played on it.
"Ok, maybe you guessed right, but…"
"Aaaaah, but Sammy:" Dean grinned "I have the advantage of being ab-so-fucking-lutely sure: I checked!"
"What? How?"
"While you were outside, puking your guts out, I did some fact-finding. Those 'punters' were not just regulars. The two rich ones owned a breeding-facility together, the workers were dog-owners, so was the pimp. The second woman was the 'grilfriend' of Mr Red-Shirt – she was into 'training' – whatever that means."
"Nothing good, I assume." Sam was impressed, but would be damned if he showed it – Dean was cocky enough without his support. "Ok, so they were all more or less connected to this man – yeah, that is probably a solid lead to him."
"Right, now we need to find this guy. Did you dig out something in the web?"
"No, not really. I found a lot more than I wanted about dog-fights and what happens to the poor animals that are rescued. They can never be trusted with other dogs, but some can live with families. Though, what family would want a killer in their house…" Sam sighed.
He had found several stories on an animal-rescue-homepage about the conditions in which the dogs were born, bred and trained. He had to pace the room after reading some of them, they had gotten under his skin. Deep. He wanted those people punished – and he was secretly glad that the spirit-dogs got a little revenge. The only thing he couldn't quite get his mind around was the fact that Dean seemed to think so too.
"So, who do we squeeze about Scarface's whereabouts? The Jerry-guy in the bar, or Mrs Barlowe?"
"Mrs Barlowe? You think she knows who he is – and where?"
"Hmm, no, not really. But she knew enough to tell us about Jerry – and to be honest, I would like to ask her some things myself. Though I sure would prefer to visit the asshole from 'Theodore's'…" The way Dean clenched and unclenched his fist was a giveaway as to how he wanted to get the information. Sam couldn't agree more.
"He would be my first choice as well. Ok, let's see what he can tell us."
Jerry McGuire – yes, it was really his name – had been very forthcoming. Right after Sam had pushed him against a brick-wall.
When Jerry had been able to breathe again, he had started to babble, threatening the hunters with the police and his 'connections'. Though when Dean had pulled out his knife and nonchalantly cleaned his fingernails, he paid closer attention to Sam – who was in a 'no kidding'-mood himself. Between his assurances that he was not a bad guy, that he never knew what he actually sold and that he never-ever would watch a dog-fight, that this really hurt – oh, ok, it's supposed to – they got the fact that he didn't know much about his contact. Jerry only knew his first name – Steve – and that someone would send certain people along who would get an address and a date from him – for pay, of course. He told them that some guy called him for the specifics – and nothing else.
Great.
A dead end.
"So, I guess we have to visit Master-Sergeant Barlowe. Oh, and Sammy – don't get any funny ideas: if you want the Rottweiler, it has to travel on your lap. I will not have a dog on the backseat!" Sam grinned. If he ever wated this dog he was sure it would end up sitting on Dean's lap as soon as it gave him a look. His brother could never resist puppy-eyes.
To make an appointment at the shelter, he stopped at a phone-box to call ahead. This time they needed her full attention – and they didn't want to help feeding again.
***
Teresa Barlowe opened the door to her house; the 'Glorious Five' had been brought to the kennels this time. Although the dogs were hers and usually belonged in the house, she accepted peoples justified dog-phobia. The not-so-tall agent seemed relieved to find the house fur-free.
"What do you know about the fights?"
"Why, didn't you arrest any of them?" For a second Sam wasn't sure what she meant – until he realized that she probably still believed them to be FBI.
"Uhm, to be honest – we are not actually from the FBI" "
"What? You lied to me? Why?"
"Well, it's easier and it gets answers faster." Dean wasn't in the mood for a long explanation.
"Sorry we lied, but we went to one of those fights – and we want them to stop. We know who kills those people and we know why – but we need to find the one who organizes these… 'events'." Sam interrupted his brother. He wanted Teresa on their side; she knew more than anybody else and they needed the information.
"I can't tell you. I gave you Jerry because I thought you were gonna arrest them – but since you are not police and clearly not in the position to do anything I want you to leave. Now!"
"Look, lady …" Dean started but was interrupted by her vicious finger waving at his face.
"Don't call me lady, young man. I'm old enough to be your Mum and you wouldn't call your Mum 'lady', would you?"
"You don't know me well enough to know what I will and what I won't do! Ma'am!"
"Stop it – Dean, please, let me handle it." Sam tried to pacify. They wouldn't get far if he let his brother blow up at this woman. Annoyed, Dean stood and strolled through the room.
There were millions of pictures on the walls – on most of them were dogs. What else… While Sam sweettalked Mrs Barlowe to listen to them, to believe them that they wanted to do something, that they needed this man – he was surprised to find pictures of people on one of the walls. All those people had dogs, but at least this were non-furry beings – quite a relieve for his eyes.
"Mrs Barlowe, I'm sorry we lied to you. But listen, please. Those fights have to stop. Whatever you know, we need to know too. We may not be police – but from what I assume, the police don't do much good around here anyway – does it?" Agitated, she clasped her hands around the coffeepot.
"No, I have talked to them, but nothing happened. At least…" Her eyes filled with tears, though she did her best to suppress them.
"What is it?
"After I told the police about what I know, I… I… Someone..." Now she couldn't stop her tears anymore, big, sad drops fell on the kitchen-table. It filled Sam with a deep sorrow, to see this strong, capable woman cry.
"They used to be the 'Glorious Seven'!" Sobbing silently, she told him that one week after her complaint, she had found two of her dogs dead. One had been decapitated, its head posted on the banister of her porch so she saw it first thing in the morning. The second had been clubbed to death, the baseball-bat still next to its mangled body. Marvel should have been dead too, but somehow the female had had enough willpower to survive the knife-attack. She had been bleeding severely, but against all odds, she was still alive.
"Since then, I keep them in my bedroom at night" she sniffed. "I don't like to let them out of my sight much."
Nothing indicated that Dean had been listening, so both were surprised when he spoke:
"Sam will go and check, if it makes you feel better." Her eyes filled with such pleading that Sam couldn't do anything but smile and nod, though he didn't like it. Yes, Sir! I will certainly do thy bidding, Master…
After Sam had left, the older Winchester sat down at the table again.
"Look, we had a bad start. Let's do it properly: Hello, my name is Dean Winchester – and I'm gonna help you get revenge!" Teresa was stunned – she had expected some sweet talk, sugar-coated assurances that she was doing the right thing... Never something like this. He must be kidding… But his eyes burned with hot intensity and so much sincerity – she didn't doubt his words.
Dean meant it. Finding loved ones killed in such a fashion – even if it were 'just dogs' – would make him ache for payback. And he suspected her to feel exactly the same. Hadn't she told them earlier that she would kill anyone who hurt her dogs? She hadn't been kidding… And Dean wasn't too.
"Look, I know you have too much to loose to do it yourself, and probably not the right…equipment. And you are scared about what will happen to the rest of your furry friends if you tell the police. I understand. I cannot promise you that the people who did this to your dogs will be personally punished. But here is what we can do: we find the one responsible for the fights. We find him – and he will be gone. Forever. No one will look for him. Nobody will dare to ask too many questions. And no one will even think that you were involved. Deal?"
Teresa was speechless. When she remembered to shut her mouth, she took a sip of the lukewarm coffee to hide her embarrassment. How could he know this? Are my feelings that obvious?
She took the offered hand the same instance the front door opened and five dogs with madly wagging tails burst into the room, barking and jumping up and down against the two conspirators, making a lot of happy noises. Sam followed, grinning from one ear to the other. You treat me like a child – I behave like a child. His eyes were daring Dean to say something. But his brother shut up, only the slight change in body-language betrayed his discomfort when the dogs came too close.
"Teresa was just about ready to tell us what she knows" Dean said when the dogs had calmed down. "Did you threaten her with a gun?" but Sam smiled and took the edge off his statement. Even with a sixty-year-old his brother could work magic. So: who is the one that has an irresistible attraction to older women?
When everyone had a fresh coffee, Sam started the questions since Dean showed no sign of taking the initiative again.
"OK, let's start in the beginning: how did you learn about those fights?"
***
It took some time to sort through the information Teresa gave them, but after two hours and buckets of coffee, they had the name of a possible suspect.
Steve Durman.
He used to be a county-employed dog-catcher, but was fired when too many people complained about his rough handling of the animals he caught. Some of them were family-dogs and quite a few of those showed unusual behaviour after their short stay in the shelter. She didn't know where he lived, but this little fact would be easy to find.
When Mrs Barlowe accompanied them to the car, she tugged Dean at his leather-jacket to keep him a few steps behind Sam, who was again happily playing with Marvel.
"This… this thing we talked about, this deal…"
"Don't worry – I promise it won't cost you you're soul." Dean grinned. "It stays between us, nobody will know."
"Good. Oh – can I make a wish?" The green-eyed man –boy? – man! looked at her and nodded solemnly.
"I want him to suffer!"Her voice was cold and the short sentence was spoken with poison dripping from every syllable. A curt nod was all she got – but it was enough assurance for her. "I have one more question: the pictures in your kitchen – those people. Do they work with you?"
"Yes, I have a photo of everyone who used to work here."
"'Used to'? Past tense?"
"Yes, it's my remembrance-wall. Every dog or person who shared my life for some time gets on it. Why?"
"You said your last help left you – when was this?"
"Oh, maybe half a year ago? One day there – next day gone without a trace. Mind you – it happens a lot. Young people don't stay very long; they get on with their lives and find different hobbies. Why?"
"Oh, just curious…"
"Did you fix a date?"
"Huh?"
"Just then, while I was further in front?" Sam leered at his brother to annoy him, but Dean wasn't in the mood for this.
"Just shut up, Sam…"
When they reached the motel, Sam looked up the address of Durnam in the telephone-directory. They found it on the map – a farm quite some way out of town – and made a plan to scoop it that evening.
To kill the time, they went out to have dinner and later Dean checked his knuckles. They were a bit soggy and hurt when he curiously poked them. But it was more discomfort than real pain; he cleaned it and put on fresh bandages. Who knew what unpleasant stuff they had to touch tonight... While he was at it, he checked his calf too. The sutures seemed to heal ok, though his leg was now completely black-purple from the ankle all the way to his knee. Great, so much for shorts…
*
"Ok, there it is" Sam whispered. They had been watching Durnams property since late afternoon, flat in the grass because there was no cover to hide behind. The fenced farmland was in a small valley, completely surrounded by hills. From down there, you cold spot a visitor the minute he showed his head over the top of any hill. No element of surprise during the day.
They had parked the Impala a mile away to avoid it being spotted and walked as close as possible. The last few yards had been passed crawling; the big duffel with the equipment – accelerant, salt, shotguns and shovels – pushed and pulled along. Now they lay in the grass and sweated under the low sun. It had been a hot day.
"Hmm?" Dean turned on his belly. He had spent the last 20 minutes on his back, head on the duffel and one arm over his face to shield it from the sun. They had taken turns watching while the other one tried to get some rest. It would be a long night, and their Dad had taught them to use every second of sleep they could get whenever they could get it.
Now Sam had shaken his shoulder to wake him and pointed to something. Dean took the field glass and followed Sam's finger. He spotted the small willow-grove, a good 900 yards off. The house and the barn lay right in the middle between them and the trees.
While they watched, Durnam was unloading something from his old pick-up. He dropped it – it looked like an animal – and opened a hatch in the ground. With a kick, he pushed the thing into it, shovelled some dirt from a nearby pile on top and closed the lid again.
When he was back in the house, the hunters prepared for a long, boring wait. Luckily, Dean had packed M&Ms, water and something to bite. Sam had persisted and so they had bought sandwiches instead of crackers...
**
"Sammy, wake up!"
The sun had set and only a dim glow illuminated the hills. The farm lay in shadow, except for the immediate vicinity of the house which was brightly lit. Durnam didn't like surprise-visitors. Taking the bags with them, they used the darkness to creep closer and cut the wire-mesh. To reach the grove, they could have gone along the fence, but already the dim glow of the sun had disappeared and the ground was too uneven to walk in darkness. To make matters more complicated, thorny bushes grew everywhere, and Sam had already made contact with one of them. They were spiky as hell and he would need a new shirt. The hunters would have to use the flashlights – and even an idiot could spot that from the house. Steve Durnam was a cruel son-of-a-bitch, but certainly not fastest way was across the yard, passing between the barn and the back-door of the house. And that was the route they took…
When they were between barn and house, they saw Durnam moving in the kitchen, turning in their direction just as they crept past his truck. Quickly, they went down, Sam crouching next to the hind-wheels and Dean taking cover behind the open loading-platform.
Red-shirt-guy was staring at his truck, sure he had seen movement. But there was nothing, and after the seconds had stretched to eternity, he shrugged and turned back around to get his microwave-dinner. Exhaling silently, the hunters stood. Sam peered into the kitchen, but Durnam had taken his delicious re-heated mud into the living-room to eat in front of the TV.
"Come on." He whispered. After two steps he noticed his brother was no longer behind him. Sam turned around.
Dean stood behind the truck, staring at something on the platform. Slowly, his head turned from the truck to the house and back again. In the gloom of the porch-light, Sam thought he looked… creepy.
"Dean?" No reaction.
"Dean!" Now his brother turned to Sam, but instead of following, he dropped the duffel. With a loud clatter from the shovels, the heavy bag fell into the dirt.
"What... Dean, come on!" Sam's whisper was more an angry hiss. What the fuck is it now? Annoyed, he grabbed his arm and tried to pull him along. But the elder shook him off and just stood. Waiting.
He didn't have to wait long. Durnam had heard the commotion and stepped out the back-door, shotgun raised.
"Who is there? What do you want?"
"Mr. Durnam, UPS. I have something for you!" Dean's voice was casual and controlled, without hesitation he approached the man with the gun, like it was the most ordinary thing to deliver mail in complete darkness. It was crazy, suicidal and … crazy. Sam took two steps into the shadows, preparing to use the rocksalt-shotgun if the bluff didn't work. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: Maybe he doesn't want it to work? Does he want to … get shot?
But the bluff did work. Durnam was so perplexed that Dean was at him before he could do anything, not even move his finger and pull the trigger. Scarily fast the young man had disarmed him and drove his knee into his crotch. With a painful groan, the man in the red shirt toppled to the ground. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was a dirty boot that was closing in on his belly…
"Where is she!"
Durnam was on the ground, the 'UPS-man' was on his chest, the shirt in his hand to keep him upright. A little upright… He had no idea what the guy was talking about, or who the crazy fucker was. But he remembered pain and dust and dirt – he remembered being kicked around the yard like a ball in a soccer-game. Through the fog in his head, he heard another voice, of another man.
"Dean, come on! What is wrong with you?"
"He killed her, Sam! And he is going to tell where. And most of all: why!!" With this, he turned and punched Steve in the face. Again. And again. The ex-dog-catcher groaned in pain.
"Who? Who did he kill? What are you talking about?" The stranger stopped punching for a minute and let Steve's head drop on the ground. With the impact of skull on dirt, Durnam saw stars exploding in his brain.
"Dean!" Sam had pulled his arm back, preventing his brother to hit the man on the ground again.
"He killed her, Sam. Look in the truck!" With this, Dean stood and shoved his brother to the dirty red pickup.
"See? Recognize it?" He grabbed the piece of cloth that had been lying in one corner of the loading-platform and waved it in front of him. Sam saw it but didn't know what to make of it. It looked like…
"It could be anybodies…" He took the red-and-black jacket that his brother was holding. It was stiff and crusted with dirt. And maybe blood, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Just an ordinary outdoor-jacket, one of a thousand. Yet Sam had to admit it looked familiar…
"You mean Mike? Why would he kill her?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out.." With these words, Dean turned back to Durnam.
The man had tried to crawl away, but his body was aflame. The kicks to the guts had been well aimed and forceful, probably rupturing something. Now the madman was on him again, grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on his back again. Slowly, almost casually he got on his knees, placing them left and right of Steve's waistline. Gently he took his chin and turned his head.
"Look at me, Stevie." His voice was deep and soft, like a purr. "Look me in the eyes…" Durnam twisted and writhed under the lunatic, but he was trapped. He tried to catch the eye of the other one, who seemed to be less violent. But the lanky guy with the sloppy hair just stood and stared. The psychopath slapped his cheek.
"Heyheyhey, look at me!" he purred again. So Steve looked…
*
It felt like being drawn into these eyes, slowly and merciless his mind was pulled into two green pools, like an animal into a tar-pit. Deep, deep inside, behind the pupils, there was a small, red light, dim and barely visible. Steve tried but he couldn't break away from this gaze and suddenly, while he looked, the light from the deep lit up…
Sam stood a few feet apart, observing the strange scene displayed in front of him. Dean kneeled over Durnam, his face in his hands. Had he not witnessed the hunter beat the man's face to a pulp, he could have mistaken the sight for a lovers caress. When his brother approached his face to Durnam's, he half expected a kiss, but Dean stopped a few inches away from Steve.
From where he stood, nothing much happened. They just looked each other in the eyes. But whatever 'nothing much' was, it had a tremendous effect on the man in the red shirt. A sharp stench hit Sam's nostrils.
It took maybe two seconds of watching the inferno behind the green eyes for Steve to be reduced to a trembling mess. He gasped sharply and lost control of his bladder and more, but was way too horrified to be embarrassed. Tears were running over his face and he started to sob painfully, crying like a scared little kid.
"What do you want…" he whispered, still not sure what it was he had to do, but sure nonetheless that he would agree to absolutely everything this man wanted from him.
"The girl. When did you kill her?" The voice was like honey, and had it not been for the eyes it would have sounded friendly, consoling. He licked his lips, still not able to break the lock the stranger had on his gaze. The terrifying fire was dimmed down, but it was still there, prepared to light up and burn its way through his soul again.
Steve couldn't speak, but he nodded - a small movement was enough for Dean to bite his lips - smothering the scream in his head.
"When?" the hunter managed through clenched teeth.
"I, I… I don't exactly… about six months ago…" Durnam was allowed a tiny pause of the burning fury in front of him when Dean had to shut his eyes for a second.
"Why?"
"Why?" The eyes were on him again, nailing him to the ground.
"Yes! Why?" the man hissed. "What kind of threat did she pose?"
"Curious…" Steve's voice was hard to make out.
"Speak up!" No purr, a growl.
"She was... curious. I heard her asking questions in town, about my…my…"
"Your horror-show. That's why you killed her? Because she asked questions?"
"No…" Durnam tried to shake his head, but couldn't, the grip on his chin was still too strong. "…yes. But not just... not because of that. I found her spying on my property. At the grove…"
"She found your mass grave, didn't she? So you killed her? Just like that? How?"
Durnam writhed, he was certain that answering this question was the last thing he would do. But the man held him tight, not giving him a chance for escape.
"How?" His voice was a whisper, directly into his ear.
"I shot her. In the head. Between the eyes…" He couldn't lie to this voice, to these eyes.
Sam had watched all this, not understanding much apart from the fact that the man had killed the girl – now he was certain where he had seen the jacket before – and that he shot her in the head. Mike, he was talking about Mike. Had she been dead already when they met her? She is a ghost?
Before he could think about this any longer, a creepy feeling spread over his spine and slowly he turned to see the three giant spirit-dogs approaching. They trotted across the yard like shadows, never making any sound. Not even a growl was heard.
"Dean." He whispered, not wanting the dogs to take notice. One of them looked up nonetheless – the small pack-leader. But it was only a casual glance, at once the glowing ember eyes were back on his prey.
"Dean!" This time his brother looked up and saw the spirits. A cruel smile spread over his face when he turned to Steve again. Slowly, like he had all the time in the world, he bent over the man and whispered in his ear, causing Durnam to whimper in terror.
"Now burn for me…"
With one elegant move, he was up on his feet, slapping the dust from his jeans. He turned and left, leaving his little brother to pick up the duffel and follow.
"Dean…"
"Don't talk to me!" Sam paused and raised his eyebrows, puzzled by the suppressed warning underneath the hiss. After they had walked a short distance, not yet out of the light, they heard Steve Durnam say something. Sam stopped and turned around.
*
"Now burn for me…"
The words had crept into his skull, leaving him trembling in fear. If someone asked him why, he wouldn't be able to tell. It was… It was a promise, a certainty. He knew he would burn – this man had told him, and he had known…
When he saw the black shapes closing in, he gasped, crawled away, knowing how this would end, nonetheless pleading to the Lord to save him, to spare him this fate…
Sam saw Steve crawl to his feet, limping away from the dogs. In the glow of the porch-lamp, he looked pale as a sheet, except for the bloody bruises Dean's fists had painted on his face. He watched the man take two steps backwards before he fell to his knees, toppled over from the pain in his abdomen. Steve got up and fell again. He whimpered audibly, his face turned to Sam. "Please, help me…"
Slowly, the dogs crept closer, not yet prepared to stop the cruel game they were playing. Sam took a step towards them, his instinctive reaction was to go and help. But he didn't. His gaze was locked to the show in front of him, and he flinched when he suddenly felt the presence of his brother next to him who had come back and stood beside him.
Steve got up once more, this time nearly making it to his house. But the spirits had waited long enough. Like someone had released a coil spring they attacked, causing Durnam to gather up his last reserves and dash for the kitchen-door.
He was without a chance. Like one, the three beasts were upon him, tearing him down, his terrified scream piercing the night. Sam stood, frozen to the ground. Somewhere inside, a voice was telling him to help the man but it was not loud enough to drown the second voice, reminding him of the horror this man had inflicted on uncounted animals. He turned his head, but the figure next to him didn't move either.
Together they watched. They watched the dogs take Steve Durnam apart – piece by piece, bit by bit. The screams were echoing over the hills, surely somewhere someone would hear him… But there were only two persons close enough to do anything – and both didn't lift a finger. From the corner of his eyes, Sam peered at his brother – what was going round his head? Would he break again watching this? Was he standing still because terror froze him?
No.
Dean's eyes were never leaving the horror in front of them. He didn't look away – took it all in. Every detail, every scream. No sign of any emotion whatsoever was playing on his handsome features. But when the lead-dog ripped a piece of flesh from Steve's calves, so big that the bone flashed pale in the moonlight, a small evil smile crept over his mouth. His eyes were cold and for an instance, Sam believed he saw something else in them, some movement, like a flicker.
A deep, deep chill crept into the young hunter.
Even when Dean had told him that he had enjoyed the torturing of others, he hadn't really believed. The possibility had been too far out of his imagination. For him, his brother's compassion towards others had been overwhelming, more an obstruction in their path than anything. He should feel satisfaction about the change, the certainty that Big Brother would be able to do a lot more than just pity everyone. But he didn't. Quite the opposite.
He was freaked out.
This was not the hot fury Dean sometimes carried inside when battling against evil, nor the desperation and pain he felt after the loss of their father. This was cold. A cold and cruel callousness. Now Sam could easily picture the man next to him in front of a torture-rack, handling unpleasant tools with skill and absolute indifference towards the souls on it.
This was not his brother. This was a stranger.
Unconsciously, he took a half-step away from him.
"Ok, enough doggie-play for today." He clapped his hands and with a sudden flash of the cocky Han-Solo-smile, the scary stranger was Dean Winchester again. With a nod of the head he encouraged the younger one to follow. "Come on, Sammy – let's light a fire." Without giving further attention to the noises of breaking bones, muffled moans and gnarling dogs, he turned away, humming a tune Sam couldn't make out.
***
"'Unforgiven'!"
"What?" Sam had been going crazy because he couldn't put the right words to the tuneless whistle from between Dean's teeth. "You're whistling Metallica again."
"I am? Didn't notice. Come on, we need to empty the pit." Luckily, Durnams 'garbage-dump' was so far away from the yard that they couldn't hear the killing-noises anymore.
Sam was chosen to open the hatch and Dean took a look. It was dark and he used his flashlight to see.
"Great, there must be at least a dozen." He sighed unhappily and lowered himself in the old well. It was quite shallow, standing up he could look over the rim. He stepped on the first carcass – the one they had watched being disposed – and when he grabbed the leg that was showing underneath the earth, it came free at once. Luckily in one piece.
"I'll throw them out, give me the shovel and point the light." It didn't take long to reach the next carcass, which had only just started to rot. It smelled disgusting.
Even Sam, who was further up, had to swallow and he rose from his crouch to get some distance and fresher air. Dean grabbed the stinking thing and threw it out.
They had to dig up every dog – it was too damp down there, too much earth in between the bones to just light up the pit. It was a very, very unpleasant task. After two more dog-bodies, Dean had to climb out and let Sammy work – he was getting sick in there.
Nearly an hour later, taking turns, they had an impressive pile of dead dogs, skin, teeth and bones. The brothers were feeling edgy, miserable and sick when Dean heaved the last set of bones on the pile.
"Hm."
"What?" Dean stood in the pit, covered in mud, dirt and other unpleasant stuff.
"These are all canine."
"So?"
"Dean, we came here to find the body of the dogs and of a human. There is no human bone in this pile…"
"Oh." Dean looked around him, but there was no other body part anywhere. That did indeed pose a problem…
"Maybe it will be enough to burn the dogs…"
"Maybe? What if not? You know, when you were doing whatever to Durnam, you could have taken the opportunity to find out where the bones are. Might have been more important than asking about 'why'… By the way, what did you do to him that caused him to shit his pants?" His brother scowled up at him. In the light of the torches, you couldn't see his eyes, but…
"Shut up and salt the dogs!"
He swung himself out of the well and went to the duffel-bag a few feet away. When he heard a sudden intake of breath, he turned around.
"Dean…"
"Oh shit – Sam…" The spirits seemed to have finished with Steve. All three were creeping closer to Sam, who seemed to be the bigger threat to their stay on earth. Even as he said it, Dean knew that there was no way his brother could salt the bones – the unopened box was behind the beasts – or reach the shotgun before those spirits attacked. Not to mention the slight problem the he had the lighter-fluid… His eyes darted to his shotgun – on the other side of the pit. They didn't even have a pistol or a knife – all this was bothersome or bound to be lost when digging. Fuck – now what?
Sam was standing stock-still. His eyes searched for a weapon but there was only the shovel he had used a few minutes ago. It wouldn't distract the ghosts. Not even slightly.
He was just to the right from the mass-grave, behind him were the carcasses. In front and slightly to his left, the dogs blocked his path – they were between the brothers.
A sharp sound came from somewhere. The dog-whistle. Sam was relieved, watched the dogs. Their ears twitched, one whined and turned its head. But this time, the spirit-dogs weren't hunting – they were in defence-mode. This was about survival; they didn't know that they were dead already. And the tall, slender man who smelled of death, earth and sweat was threatening them. No whistle would stop them today…
"Sam!"
Without waiting if Sam understood, Dean ran directly at the dogs, swerving in the last second to trow the bottle to his brother. Who caught it, of course. Instinctively, the dogs started to chase the running prey.
Salt, salt, salt. Sam ran, grabbed the salt-box, tore it open and spilled half of it on the way to the pile.
Dean ran. Fast – not bothering to check if they followed. His calf was killing him.
Dammit, why is this opening so small? The fluid seemed to only dribble from the bottle.
The earth was muddy, it was difficult to run. Didn't seem to affect the spirits much.
Fuck Fuck Fuck – why does he have to play Mr. Superhero again – and where the FUCK are the matches?
He slipped, stumbled, caught his balance – only to fall over something hidden in the grass.
Come on, come ON – burn!
He rolled over his shoulder but couldn't get up – his legs were entangled in a coil of wire. On his back, using hands and feet he crawled away.
Sam set the corpse-pile ablaze; the heat-wave was strong enough to burn away the hairs on his forearms. He turned to see his brother on the ground, the dogs sneaking closer now they knew he was trapped.
Great, another memory of Dean being ripped apart – any more and I'll get used to it…
The fire wasn't affecting the dogs yet – maybe their bones were deeper in the pile. Sam grabbed his shotgun and ran, bellowing something unrecognizable to get their attention. One turned for him – and Sam shot it with rock salt. Like all spirits, it vanished. Unlike most spirits, it reappeared nearly at once, solidifying quickly on the same spot it had disappeared from. The second shot didn't do much more damage – the dog kept on coming, was only slightly constrained. All the while the other two prepared for the final jump for their prey on the ground.
Shit…
Shit...
I wrote this before Kripke messed with my fantasy, so Dean is a bit different from the Dean of the show. Still, not different enough to be AU. I took the liberty to grab a little idea from 'Dr Who'. Cookies for everyone who recognizes it...