o()o
Author's Note: Does anyone remember this story? I'm still out here! Sorry it's been so long, but I'm working hard on chapter 15 and 16 is darn near done. :) Thanks to everyone who takes a minute to remember this story and have a read. :)
Nifty fact for the Day: The translation for what the head says to Dean is "Your soul stinks." "It stinks of death" "and dead men belong to me."
Special Thanks: To youthere for keeping me on my toes and making sure that my Italian is correct. You rock, sweetie! :)
o(14)o
When he had told Sam that this job would be 'interesting', this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.
Hunkered against a giant pallet of ancient flour, Dean tried to take stock of the current situation while staying as far away as he could from the overgrown sasquatch-wannabe that was quickly reducing the flour mill into tinder.
The forecast wasn't good.
He swore quietly. He had known damn good and well that they'd been screwed from the moment they walked into the delapidated mill. Gun at the ready, the first thing he had done was slip on a vile mixture of dust, flour, and what was left of the latest victim.
The whatever-it-was had come from nowhere, grabbing Sam by the throat and tossing him across the room like a toy. Dean had emptied half of his clip into the creature before it reached him, driving a huge, hair-covered palm into his chest and sending him sailing against a far wall. The impact had knocked the air from his lungs and he hadn't been able to draw a proper breath since.
He had gone from hunter to hunted with startling speed.
Across the room, Sam's mouth was moving, but he couldn't make out the words over the blood pounding in his ears and the inhuman wails that seemed to reverberate through the mill and into his bones, making all his injuries throb mercilessly.
A wooden crate hurtled through the air and exploded against the wall behind him in a shower of splinters and dust.
"Son of a bitch!"
Dean raised an arm to protect his eyes, biting off a yelp as the movement sent agony flaring from his fingertips to shoulder.
Sam took the creature's tantrum as an opportunity to scrabble from behind his meager cover to the pallet of flour that Dean was crouched against.
"What the hell is that thing, Dean?" Sam hissed, drawing his knees up, shotgun held close to his chest.
"How am I supposed to know? You're the one with the paranormal rolodex in that freakish head of yours."
"It isn't the ghost is it?" Sam asked. "The one you've been seeing?"
Dean shot his brother an incredulous look. "Does it look like any kind of ghost you've ever seen, Sam?"
"Well," Sam furrowed a brow. "Whatever it is, it sure as hell isn't a werewolf."
"No kidding. We might as well be throwing Tic-Tacs at the thing for all the freaking good the silver does."
Nodding grimly, Sam sank further against the pallet, wincing as he did.
Dean frowned, looking hard at his brother. Sam's left eye was already swelling shut and the other wasn't far behind. His knuckles were split and bleeding and his hair was matted with streaks of blood-flour paste.
"Jesus, Sammy . . ." he rasped.
Sam waved a hand. "I'm fine, they're just scratches. What about you?"
Dean looked down at the blood that was leeching steadily between his fingers and grimaced. "Bastard got me good, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig."
Reaching to pry Dean's hand away from his side, Sam bit out a quiet curse.
Dean arched an eyebrow. "Why, I didn't even know you knew that word."
"You should." Sam muttered back. "You're the one that taught it to me." He shot a cagey look around the mill. "We've got to get out of here. You need help."
A large chunk of wood glanced off Dean's injured shoulder and he turned a groan into a growl, fighting the sparks that were edging his vision. "Great plan, got any ideas on how to do that? We don't even know what we're up against."
"We could run."
"And what? Hope it doesn't notice us sneaking out the front door?"
Sam's jaw tightened. "Do you have a better idea?"
A shadow fell over them, and Dean froze, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. The smell was overpowering, the musty reek of damp fur and under it, the fetid smell of feral animal and rotting meat.
Sam clutched at his shotgun, trying to fold his long limbs to make himself as small as possible, a habit left over from childhood, as though he were still ten and short for his age instead of the gargantuan freak that he was now. If they hadn't been about to be torn into beef jerky by Bigfoot, Dean might have been amused.
After an endless second the shadow lumbered on and several feet away there was the sound of more splintering wood and more inhuman wailing. It was pissed, no doubt.
But only half as pissed as Dean was.
Indignation flooded him, replacing his previous pain. "I swear," he muttered, "I'm going to kill that thing until it dies from it."
Sam huffed, but the sound came out more like an unsteady wheeze. "What are you going to do, bleed on it?"
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but another projectile sailed overhead, bouncing off the wall of flour and landing in his lap.
Mottled and gray against the stained denim of his jeans, sat a head, the eyes staring blindly up at him. Most of the flesh on the right side of its face was missing, revealing glistening bone beneath. There was no mistaking the teeth marks around where its lips and nose should have been.
Sam swore, recoiling, his face twisted in disgust.
Dean's stomach lurched and he floundered backwards, sending the head spinning across the dusty floor. It slowed to a stop, facing him and the eyes that were cloudy and dull just a moment ago were now infinite and black.
The severed head grinned with what was left of shredded lips, revealing a blackened stump where the tongue should have been, its eyes rolled up to look at him.
"La tua anima puzza, Dean," it hissed, the words rattling through shredded vocal cords.
He didn't understand the words, but they sent a shudder through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck and hands stand on end.
All around them silence fell, heavy enough to suffocate.
"Hey," Sam hissed, "it stopped, maybe we can get out now before it starts up again."
Dean couldn't answer. The blackness of the demon's eyes filled his vision, drawing him into their depths, holding him captive.
"Puzza come un morto."
"Dean! What's going on? Talk to me."
He couldn't force air into his lungs, couldn't draw a breath to shout for help. All he could do was stare, helpless, into the reflection of the pit.
"Dean!"
The head gave a thick, gurgling chortle, "ed i morti appartengono a me."
o()o
His daddy's eyes were wide and afraid and he was shouting, but Dean couldn't hear what he was saying over the roar of the fire. He stared at the dancing flames, terrified and awestruck all at once.
This wasn't fire like his birthday candles or the fire Daddy cooked over when they went camping. This fire was alive, breathing and eating everything in its path. He could hear it, crackling and groaning and if he looked hard enough, he could see faces in the flickering orange. Mouths open in silent screams, eyes melting into different, distorted faces.
Finally, Daddy's words reached him over the din. "Now Dean, Go!"
Jolted from his daze, he could see the black smoke filling the room and hear little Sammy's choking screams. He had to get out!
The last thing he saw before he burst out of the room, was his Mommy, eyes wide like a doll's, red smeared on her tummy, staring at him from the ceiling.
o()o
He awoke shivering and disoriented, his hair and clothing plastered to his body.
Wet sand clung to his naked skin and jeans in a layer of chilly grit and the tang of saltwater stung his eyes and nose.
All around him was the rush of water. The sand was white beneath his bare feet, bleached to the color of bone by moonlight and the ocean was the color of tar, churning thickly. Something about the area seemed familiar, eerily so.
It wasn't a sensation he liked.
Dean rolled onto his side, agony igniting through his muscles and straight into the bone. He bit down hard against it and pushed himself to his feet, hand pressed against his ribs, where the hurt was the worst.
Straightening gingerly, he drew his hand away from his side and grimaced at the crimson coating his fingertips. He dimly remembered being hurt, but the memory was blurry, unreachable in his mind.
Before he could dwell on it further, there was a flutter of movement and something plummeted out of the sky, landing at Dean's feet with a muted thump.
Squatting, he pressed his fist against his mouth. "Poor little guy," he murmured.
It might have been a sparrow once, but the feathers were matted and sparse, beak broken. The fallen bird twitched once, feebly flexing shattered wings and then was still.
He barely had time to jerk out of the way when a second bird fell. Off balance, he pinwheeled for a moment and then fell backwards in the sand.
The third landed behind him. A forth, still clinging to life, flopped helplessly over his splayed fingers. He jerked away from it, his blood suddenly turning to ice water.
"Oh, God."
Small bodies, twisted and broken, glanced off his shoulders and back. Their beaks and stiffening claws nicked his skin like thousands of minute razor blades. The clean tang of the ocean was quickly replaced with the reek of decay.
Chest heaving, he hunkered under the siege of the dead and dying. The patter of falling bodies was suddenly occluded by the sound of a thousand whispering voices and Dean found himself face to face with black-ringed eyes and a pale, bloodied face.
He was fast, scuttling away from the apparition like a crab, but the ghost was faster, a skeletal hand shooting out and closing icy fingers around his wrist.
The whispers turned into an earsplitting roar, echoing inside his skull and adrenaline flooded his system. He tried to wrench away, but the icy grip around his arm was unnaturally strong. Darkness began to seep into his vision, occluding the silver-gray scenery, drawing him into it, forcing him into the endless black.
Not happening.
With a roar, he threw himself to one side, breaking the ghost's grasp and landing with a jarring thud on the sand. The darkness had obscured his vision now, but he could still sense someone — some thing —standing over him. The ghost.
Adrenaline flooded his system. In a heartbeat he was surging to his feet, vaguely aware of the pain in his side. The apparition took a single step toward him and the hunter came up fighting for his life.
o()o