A/N: That darn spyware slowed my computer up quite a bit, so I couldn't wheel and deal between programs as fast as I usually do. I intended to post this Saturday morning. Last Saturday morning. Oops. My bad.
Over three hundred reviews. So you guys aren't sick of me, huh? Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and put "Dog" on their Story and Author Alert lists! Also, much love to the lurkers. I'm feelin' kinda misty eyed here!
Had a hard time writing this because of what I do to some characters that I really like. All the action takes place during the same day John and Sam left Bobby Singer's place.
Summary: The restful interlude's over, folks, 'cause the shit's hitting the fan. Right. Now.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.
Dog Eat Dog
Chapter 48 – No Safe Place
One
Two Dogs Homestead
New Mexico
After the tow truck guy pulled off in a cloud of dust Thomas just stood there in the doorway of the barn, a wide grin stretching all the way across his broad brown face. He felt like the cat that swallowed the canary, and he knew he looked the part too.
He traded in three of the trucks he and Dean worked on in order to clinch the deal with Moore's Garage. He kept that ornery candy apple red pick-up truck because he'd promised that he would, but he made no such promise to the rest.
Thomas walked around the car, idly running his fingertips across the hood, the trunk. Despite the patches of rust here and there, and the missing chrome around the rear window she was still a beauty. Nothing that a little tender loving care and elbow grease couldn't fix. Sure, there were other 1967 Chevy Impalas in the county, but when he saw her a couple of days ago at the garage Thomas had gotten a good feeling about this one. He had no intention of dredging up painful memories for Dean; he just wanted to give the kid back something that he'd lost. Thomas ran his hand lovingly down the left front fender of the car just before he walked out. He was careful to latch the barn door shut behind him.
Be dark in a couple of hours. Bertha had gone into town, and he planned on having supper on the table by the time she got back. Afterwards he was going to put on his best poker face, walk up to Dean and tell him that he really needed his help in the barn.
Halfway to the house Thomas stopped to watch Bertha's brown mare and several of the other horses. They were all bunched up together on the side nearest the house, squealing and whickering. That two year old grey and white pinto colt stood shivering and shaking in the opposite corner all alone. Thomas squinted, blinking in the sunlight. It looked like the colt had a lumpy grey saddle blanket on his back. That didn't look right.
Despite the desert heat he felt a chill in the air.
And God help him, for some reason he didn't want to get close enough to get a really good look at whatever it was.
-- RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE ---
Dean's voice, plain as day, so loud inside his head it made his ears ring.
Something was happening.
Something was already here.
That grey lump on the colt's back moved. The thing wrapped long spindly arms and legs around the colt's barrel shaped body and grinned at Thomas, red-eyed. It sunk its long sharp needle-like teeth into the back of the colt's neck.
Thomas stood there frozen. The colt gave a tired whuffing sound and slowly sank forward on its knees, as if it were praying.
Thomas backed up towards the house.
Slowly.
The shotgun was tucked away alongside the railing next to the porch swing. He turned towards the house, and just as he did Thomas caught sight of something up on the roof. He stepped back, shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand.
It was an owl. A Great Horned Owl, perched on the roof overhanging the porch. The large brown bird leaned forward slightly, and its large unblinking yellow eyes locked onto Thomas' startled brown ones.
And at the last moment Thomas remembered that he hated surprises, because they were usually unpleasant.
The chewing sounds behind him, the nervous stamping and squealing of the horses all faded away into the background. He felt himself falling backwards, sinking deep into his skin as the Other one pushed his way inside his body. Thomas thought of Bertha ---
I love you, babe, I do. I'm sorry, so sorry…
It was too little, too late.
A moment later the Other one wearing Thomas' skin laughed as he picked up the shotgun up and walked over to the corral.
He put a wide smile on Thomas' face as he shot and killed all the horses, and he stood so close that his skin and clothes were splattered with blood and gore. He even killed the grayling that clung to the colt's back, and that didn't really matter 'cause there were plenty more where that little bastard came from. The skinwalker laughed and he smiled, and the smile even reached his eyes. It was a good joke, a fine joke, too good to keep to himself. He wanted to share. Bertha was miles away, in town, and he reached out to share it with her.
Two
--- behind him smell of dried blood and shit in the air and Dean knows what it's not, not Bear, not a kachina, can't sense that bright golden light, Redd and Slymm at the edge of the lake below and it sure in the hell ain't Thomas or Bertha --
--- Coyote's four legged now, wild yellow eyes and bared teeth, sharp and white Wiped out a nest of these things back in the day…can't be them, can't be…I killed 'em…killed them all…three hundred sixty degree rear sight kicks in behind him and Dean's eyes widen in shock God these are some ugly mothers, heads like blunt instruments, large silver eyes, legs bent in all the wrong directions, sunburned grey skin and whip-like spines…
--- he's growling and snarling, a low deep sound that vibrates way down in his chest and throat and he doesn't know if it's him or Coyote and doesn't care anymore and the fierce glow from his eyes warms his skin as he fills his right hand with his Colt 1911, his left with his Desert Eagle and all he can think about is Thomas and Bertha and Redd and Slymm and that's it, you fugly bastards, here I am, you don't want them, you want me ---
--- they're on him even as he turns around, the biggest one shrieking and screeching as he moves, pushing them back with his mind, blowing fist sized holes in the bastards with the guns and one of them glides in low past him like oily black water, headed for the lake and the sisters below, and Dean turns and empties half a clip into the fucker, sends it sprawling and shrieking down on those impossibly bent knees as he silently yells at the sisters RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE ---
--- but it doesn't go down all the way, scrambling forward like a broken legged crab, fugly bastard's still headed for the lake and as Dean turns to track it with the Desert Eagle the first spine punches through his right shoulder and he tries not to scream out and the second one pierces his left thigh and the smallest fugly closest to him face plants into the ground as he shoots it in the face but the others just climb over it and keep on coming and nothing matters anymore as they slam into him on all sides, gaping mouths and jagged claws that pop his skin open like a ripe grape, his own blood warm and salty against his skin as the world around him melts into a blur of misshapen limbs and silver eyes….
Three
Pryce-Atkins Construction site
Flagstaff, Arizona
Bear figured he had a few hours to kill before he made his next move. The good folks at Pryce-Atkins Bank apparently needed a stronger reminder as to why it was such a bad idea to build their new world headquarters on that spot in the first place.
Time to haul out the big guns. Creating freakishly large sinkholes that mysteriously appeared underneath construction sites overnight was a personal favorite of Bear's. A properly placed, well-timed sinkhole was a real show shopper guaranteed to put a sizable dent in any company's profit margin.
Bear tipped his hard hat back on his head. He grabbed his Thermos and fell in behind the other crew members heading for the exit. He felt uneasy in his skin, and he didn't know why. There was a wrongness in the air, a bad vibration he hadn't felt in a long time.
"Hey there."
Bear glanced over and growled, deep in his throat.
Sonsabitches were gettin' bold.
It was Ben Tucker's body, all right. Same tall, beefy ex-Marine with that distinctive white crew cut, but Ben wasn't home anymore. Ben's smile was too bright and his eyes were pitch black.
Bear narrowed his eyes as they turned onto the sidewalk.
"Too bad 'bout your boy, huh?"
"My boy?" Bear rumbled.
"Coyote and that damn hunter cub of his. There's no safe place for him. Not any more. He's back and he's weak, and they're gonna take 'em." Ben's normally gruff voice was pitched higher than normal. Nobody else noticed a thing. Bear extended his power, stared into those glassy black eyes and pulled the vision out.
The cave is dark, lit only by the flickering ghost light up in the corners. Bodies shift from one form to the next as they move around in the darkness, sometimes on four legs, sometimes two. Male at first, then female, then back again. Painted skin to striped fur. Dean Winchester sits upright against the far wall, arms out to his sides, staked to the rock wall, and as they pad towards him with their skinning knives and blood bowls he raises his head, opens his eyes and stares at them defiantly…
Bear's upper lip curled up in a snarl."'Ánt'įįhnii …witch people…"
"Surprised you didn't pick up on it before, Teddy Bear," the demon prattled on. "Wheel's turnin' in the opposite direction now. You'll see."
"Okay, shit for brains," Bear muttered crossly. His brown eyes glowed bright amber and the demon's black eyes widened in surprise. Ben Tucker's back went ramrod straight as Bear pushed one large palm up against Tucker's forehead and pulled up and back, his broad fingers hooked into claws. Strings of dense black smoke poured out of Tucker's skin and dissolved into dead grey wisps of smoke.
Tucker squinted painfully as his vision cleared. Damn, the inside of his head was buzzing like crazy. Maybe he oughta cut out the boozing, 'cause he couldn't shake it off the next day like he could when he was younger. He looked around woozily, blinking in the sunlight.
Crap. Could've sworn he was talking to that big black guy, the one with that nickname…oh yeah. Bear. He was gone now. For a big dude he sure could move fast.
Four
Bixby, New Mexico
Same day
"Ma'm, are you all right?"
Bertha couldn't hear. She stood frozen in place, sliding down, away from the world. She was vaguely aware of the store clerk's hand on her arm. Her right hand clenched so violently the glass jar in her hand shattered.
"Ma'm?"
--- RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE---
Thomas' fingertips brushed against her skin, and she tightened her grip but she couldn't hold him.
She couldn't understand why she couldn't hold him.
I love you, babe, I do. I'm sorry, so sorry…
He slipped away from her, pushed down deep inside his own skin, locked away, and all that was left was the thing that wore his body. She stood there crying, tears running down her face, and the skinwalker inside Thomas smiled and smiled, all good cheer and humor.
Be seeing you real soon, bitch. Why don't you be a good little girl and come on home now, huh?
The shards of broken glass bit deeply into the palm of her hand and she couldn't even feel it.
Five
Outskirts of Two Dogs Homestead
New Mexico
At some point he became aware that they weren't moving anymore. It took him a while to realize that. He could still hear the hissing and the screeching and that deep bass growling and snarling.
That was him, wasn't it?
Dean wasn't sure.
They lay on the ground all around him. Bloodied, broken heaps. Being freshly dead didn't improve their looks either. Nothing could. He smelled wet blood and shit and slime and other bodily fluids that his mind refused to identify. The air felt wet against his skin. He breathed, and he hurt.
But they weren't moving anymore and he was damn glad about that.
Dean looked down dully. He could barely feel the ground through the worn knees of his jeans. There was blood all around, and he couldn't tell which was theirs and which was his.
Huh.
One of the bastards nearby twitched its legs and he raised the Colt without much thought and emptied an entire clip into it.
Bastard didn't move again.
Maqįį…
The voice was like snakes slithering through tall grass, low, stealthy.
Shadows whispered and shifted all around him.
Dean lifted his head wearily. More of 'em. There were more of 'em, and if they needed killing he would be happy to oblige. Just let me catch my breath you sorry fucker and I'll be right with you…
One of the shadows chuckled and Dean wondered just what was so damned fucking amusing.
…two-as-one…
…'Ánt'įįhnii… Coyote whispered faintly. He sat in the headspace, panting, winded, with his back against the tree. "Witch people. They practice the Witchery Way. Came from First Man. First Woman. Bad idea. Very bad idea." Coyote shook his head wearily. "Tried to tell them so, but would they listen? Oh hell no…"
Dean squinted in the sunlight. Out of all the shadows that stood around him there was one in particular that bothered him the most. The wolf standing in front of him had swallowed a man, and the dude's face was framed by the animal's wide gaping jaws full of teeth. The face and lips were coal black, slick. There was bright blue color on his nose and chin, bright blue smeared underneath those intense brown eyes. The blue and the black might have been paint. Or maybe not.
Dean didn't like that smile. He'd seen that smile and those eyes before.
The vision rose up all around him, and he briefly wondered if this was how Sammy felt when that yellow-eyed bastard's visions pushed themselves into his head, whether Sam wanted them to or not.
…cold…he felt so cold...
Being stabbed in the back didn't hurt that much. Stopped hurting when the cold spread through his body and his legs gave out on him. Sarah's arms were warm around him, and he could barely feel her. She was crying, and he felt really bad about that. He didn't want to leave, didn't want to leave her and the baby. He wanted to see Bertha grow up, wanted to live with Sarah by his side, but he was cold and there was so much blood and he couldn't get up…
Dean's eyes widened in shock.
"We took from you before," the wolf skinwalker said. "Your wife. Your child. Your family and your life. You knew it then. You know it now. There's no safe place around you, Roamer. What you did here today doesn't matter. None of this does. The rest of them still think you're weak. They'll hunt you like a dog for the rest of your days. You'll have no peace. They'll kill everything and everyone you love, Old Man. And there will come a day when you will come willingly to us, you'll beg us to end it for you. You'll bare your throat to our knives and smile as we bleed you."
"Not even on your best day," Dean whispered roughly.
He stared down at his hands. He had a death grip on both guns, and his fingers hurt. He willed the Colt and the Desert Eagle to go away. He didn't need them anymore. He'd kill them all with his bare hands.
He'd enjoy it more that way.
He'd kill the wolf first, and then the others. Dean saw several coyotes, crows and mountain lions. Snakes coiled on the ground all around them. They backed up when he looked at them, and that was how Dean knew they were seeing the yellow in his eyes.
They were afraid of him. Even as weak as he was, they were afraid of him. Otherwise, why stand around and talk?
Got to get up, Dean thought hazily to himself. Get up now…
When he looked up again the sun was at the horizon. The Others were gone.
He got up, even though his head and body bitched about it. He was wobbly as a newborn colt, but he staggered down the hill, slowly. He was in so much pain he couldn't feel it, and as he neared the lake Dean froze, swaying on his feet, as his heart and his gut clenched painfully.
Redd died first.
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If this computer makes it through the day I plan on posting soon this weekend.
Next up: More angst with Dean, Sam and John.
