Look who doesn't have writer's block anymore? In the immortal words of Homer (J. Simpson), Wohoo!
Munising, Michigan
It's been two months since I last saw Dean.
Come to think of it, it's been two months since anyone hasseen Dean.
"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Garth told me when I last passed through the tavern. "He does that a lot. Didn't see him for three whole years once. Came back with that eye patch and those gnarly lookin' scars. Never said how he got 'em so folks started makin' assumptions. You ever get the skinny on that?"
"No," I lied. "Maybe it really was the Jersey Devil."
That was almost a week ago. And I am a little worried. I know Dean's a survivor. He doesn't even loose the fights he goes into with every intention of loosing. But it would just figure he went and got himself killed after how I left things between us.
"I mean, I'm still mad at him. But what if that was the last thing I ever said to him?"
"He's not dead, so quit worrying about it and shut up," Luke hisses. "I'm trying to figure out what we're hunting."
I sigh from the motel bed where I've been laying, staring up at the weird looking stain on the ceiling as I blather on about the "what ifs" that are starting to weigh me down. I sit up to look at Luke who sits at the small wooden table near the door, flipping through a large book of mythology.
"I'm telling you it's a windigo," I say as I reach for an unopened bottle of ale that sits on the nightstand between the full sized beds.
"And I'm telling you it's not," Luke argues with annoyance.
"What else could it be?" I challenge, popping off the cap. "People are walking into the woods, but they're not walking out. We're in the right part of the country, plus all those scratch marks on the trees. You did say it looked like a monster in your vision."
"Yes," he admits. "But I didn't say it looked like a windigo."
"I'm still pretty sure it's a windigo," I tell him with confidence before taking a sip from the brown bottle I hold. "I've got a flare gun in my truck."
"How helpful," Luke mutters sarcastically.
He continues to flip through old, yellowing pages, glancing between the book and the sketch he drew of the creature in his vision. Suddenly he pauses, staring down at the page he's landed on. Whatever he's found, it's caused his eyes to widen and a deep breath to escape as he sits back in his chair.
"Shit," he mumbles. "I know what we're hunting."
"What is it?" I ask before taking another swig of my beer.
"Manticore."
Most of the beer in my mouth sprays out, ending up on the tacky leaf patterned bedspread. The beer I don't spit out I end up choking on.
"What!?" I cough, pounding my chest in an attempt to expel alcohol from my lungs. "Are you kidding me?! A manticore!?"
"Yep," Luke confirms with a serious lack of enthusiasm.
"Jesus," I say in a low tone, wiping the corners of my mouth with the sleeve of my plaid red and yellow shirt.
If there's a creature worse than a demon, it's a manticore. A creature with the head of a man, the body of a lion and a tail that resembles a scorpion's - or so the legends would have you believe. They have poisonous darts that shoot out of their tail and three rows of sharp, pointed teeth. They're lightning fast, Hulk strong and mercilessly vicious.
The worst part is that they eat people. Whole. Clothes and all. Their name literally means "man-eater".
"I thought those things were extinct," I say, hoping the fact I don't want this creature to be a manticore will somehow turn it into a lesser monster. "And not generally found in the US of A. What's it doing here?"
"Besides eating people, I have no idea," Luke shrugs with a sigh. "Listen, if you want to sit this one out, I don't think Netta's too far away."
"No, no," I shake my head. "I'm in."
"Really," he says. "It would be okay. I can call Garth, have him send up another hunter or two..."
"I said I'm in," I repeat, somewhat offended he seems to think I'm too scared to fight.
I mean, I am pretty freaked out. I won't deny that. There's no use lying to a psychic. But I'm also not going to let that stop me from taking this thing down.
It's time I start making a legend out of myself.
"I knew you wouldn't back down," Luke says, but in less of a "good for you" sort of way, and more of a "that's disappointing" kind of way.
"Is there a reason I shouldn't go?" I question suspiciously.
"I guess not," he replies. "I mean, we'll both make it out alive."
"Then there's no reason for me not to go," I say. "So how do we kill it?"
xXxXx
Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore [just outside Munising]
We wait until the sun's gone down and all the tourists have vacated the area for the day. Once the last car - save for my beat-up pickup truck - has pulled away from the trail head's parking lot, Luke and I start loading up our hunting gear.
"You're sure about this?" I ask as I load my silver handgun with regular run-of-the-mill bullets. "Because I'm not going to lie, this sounds horrible."
"Lore states the manticore's skin is too thick to be penetrated," Luke explains for the second time this evening. "The only vulnerable place is..."
"The mouth," I finish with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. I was hoping I had heard you wrong or that we didn't believe the lore."
"When do we ever not believe the lore?" he points out.
I sigh again. I mean, I'm not too worried. Luke assured me we're walking out of this one alive, so there's not a lot to really worry about. Still, trying to get this thing to swallow a bullet sounds hard and mildly terrifying.
"Which one of us kills it?" I ask, trying to soothe the nerves. "Is it me?"
"I'm not telling," Luke says. "That's cheating."
"Dude, hunting with you in general is basically cheating," I point out. "You already told me we live. Just give me a hint. Or at least tell me what weapons to bring."
"No," Luke refuses.
I knew he wouldn't tell me. He never tells me the details of his visions, not unless he thinks I absolutely need to know something. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because knowing what happens will make me cocky and that will somehow change the outcome. Or maybe he just doesn't feel the need to tell me all about something I'm about to live through.
"Just stay away from the cliffs."
So there is something he's not telling me. I had suspected so, ever since he seemed a little bummed I wouldn't tap out of this one. But if we both make it out, it can't be that bad, right? Maybe an injury or two but living is the important thing here. Living and killing that damn manticore.
Despite the fact Luke knows who and what will inevitably kill this creature, we both load up with multiple weapons; hand guns, rifles, bows. Anything we can launch towards this thing's mouth without having to get too close - although I do strap a hunting knife to my hip for the hell of it, and Luke packs a handful of throwing knives just in case.
Heavily armed and as ready as we'll ever be, I lock up my truck and we head for the trail.
"Hypothetically speaking," Luke begins as we find the dirt path that cuts through a dense forest. "If you were to see Dean again, what would you say to him?"
"I don't know," I admit, awkwardly carrying my rifle and bow under my left arm while my right hand fidgets with a flashlight. "I'd be glad he wasn't dead. I guess I'd apologize for calling him a dick, maybe try to hash things out."
"Okay," he nods. "Just hold onto that idea."
"Oh... kay..."
I'm not even going to bother asking. I'm sure it's one of those things that'll make sense when the time comes. Plus, as mentioned, Luke infrequently elaborates on his visions.
But if he's asking, I'm willing to bet I'll be running into Dean in the near future.
We stroll along the trail for a while, keeping a sharp eye out as we converse. The way we see it, the manticore will probably come looking for us. Noise will alert it that we're near by and will probably bring it out sooner than later.
We've been walking for a while when I hear a twig snap. It comes from the trail behind us, not too far away from the sounds of it. I gulp but maintain a casual composure.
"I think we're being followed," I whisper.
"I think you're right," Luke quietly agrees.
I attempt to stealthily adjust my rifle so I can reach the trigger with my left hand while keeping the bow tucked under my arm. I count to three in my head before I quickly spin around, pointing both flashlight and gun at...
"Dean?"
The Winchester squints as he turns his face away from the bright light.
"Put that thing down," his gruff voice instructs.
I oblige, lowering the light to the ground. Dean blinks a few times, attempting to regain his night vision.
I turn my gaze away from him with an annoyed expression on my face, wordlessly telling him I'm still mad. Part of me is relieved to see him alive. But knowing he's okay has suddenly made me less keen on apologizing, despite Luke's suggestion of "holding on to" my original should-I-run-into-Dean plan.
If anyone here needs to say "I'm sorry", it's him.
"Manticore?" Luke asks Dean, though it's really more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah," Dean replies. "Big game for a couple of rookies, don't you think?"
"We're not going anywhere," I snap before he can insist we stay back, narrowing my eyes at him as I speak. "And we're not 'rookies'. We've got this one covered."
"Yeah, well, I'm not going anywhere either," Dean states firmly. "I don't need backup."
"No one's going anywhere," Luke steps in. "We're all after the same thing, so we might as work together. Alright?"
"Fine," I mumble.
"Yeah, sure," Dean replies unenthusiastically.
"Good," Luke says. "Let's keep walking."
Luke takes the lead, leaving Dean and I to walk side by side behind him.
I wonder if this is why Luke suggested I try to patch things up with Dean. Because he knew we'd be hunting with him. It would be a lot less awkward if we were on good terms.
"You're carrying too many weapons," Dean criticizes, his eye taking in our surroundings.
"At least I have weapons," I huff. "Or is this just another suicide mission for you?"
"What are you talking about?" Dean's brows furrow.
"I'm getting the feeling this hunt is like that griffin you took on in New Jersey," I tell him. "I heard you praying to Castiel. I know why you took that griffin on by yourself."
Dean stops short. I pause to watch him pull his jacket open. He frowns at me as he pulls a plastic bottle from his inner jacket pocket.
"I have weapons, smartass," he tells me.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Gasoline," he replies, slipping it back into his pocket.
"Gasoline?" I echo in the form of a question. "How is that a weapon? It's mouth is it's only weak spot."
"What do you think'll happen if it ingests gasoline?" Dean answers my question with another question. He pauses to pull out a flare gun. "And it catches fire?"
Okay, fair enough. Maybe Luke and I took this creature's vulnerability too literally. I'm sure forcing it to eat led would work, but poisoning it or setting it on fire from the inside would probably work just as well. Except...
"How are you going to get it to drink gasoline?" I ponder out loud. "Are you just going to walk up to it and pour it in?"
"If I have to," he replies as he begins walking once again.
"So this is a suicide mission for you," I accuse, jogging to catch up with him. "Is it seriously easier for you to just give up than it is for you to say you're sorry and let me live my own life?"
"It's not a suicide mission," Dean denies.
"Bull... Shit!"
I trip on an unseen root and tumble to the ground. My weapons are thrown from my arms and my flashlight rolls down the trail a short ways.
"I told you you were carrying too many weapons," Dean says.
I roll my eyes as I pick myself up, brushing dirt from my jeans before I gather my fallen weapons. Once I've collected my bow and gun, I chase down my flashlight. As I lift it from the ground, the light illuminates a face in the forest. My initial reaction is to jump back, but my nerves calm a bit when I get a better look; blue eyes, blonde hair, blonde beard. From the looks of it, it's just a man. A really tall man, but human none the less.
"Holy shit," I breath. "You scared me."
I pause, suddenly aware of the weapons in my possession. This guy's probably DNR, and I'm walking around a national park with hunting gear.
"This... isn't what it looks like," I speak, not entirely sure how I'm going to talk my way out of a hefty fine.
The man doesn't say anything. Instead he gives me a wide, toothy grin. There's something seriously wrong with his teeth. They're too sharp, and it looks like there's more than one set...
Oh.
Well, fuck.
Out of curiosity, which do you prefer: a happy ending or a sad ending?