A/N: Nyx is a goddess of the night (thank you, Wikipedia). The nyx are my AU version of night critters who wear human skins like clothing. Dialogue paraphrased from "In My Time of Dying" (Jensen Ross Ackles Fans episode summaries – courtesy of Aurelia). Portions of the warsong paraphrased from "Devil's Trap" (same source). Verb tense and italics: John's flashbacks. Italics: Dean's visions. Oh yes, John curses. A lot.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. You have no idea how much it pains me to say that.
Dog Eat Dog
Chapter 49 – Carry On My Wayward Son: Warsong
One
Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota
Same night
"Huh. Another one." Caliym stood there tapping her foot impatiently as she glared at Bobby. "You got a busload of people coming, Johnny boy? You don't have all night, y'know."
"I expected somethin' stupid like this from you, John. Just back from hell, so I know your head isn't screwed back on just right." Bobby wasn't going to mince words. Wasn't his way. If John or Sam didn't like it, well, tough shit. He was here to try to talk some sense into these fools.
Bobby stood there easily, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He made no sudden movements, kept his hands out where they could see them. It was stupid stepping out unarmed, but if he'd walked out on them carrying his shotgun there was no telling what kind of shit would start. This was family he was interfering in, pretty touchy stuff.
The smart play would have been to turn a blind eye to all of it and not give any of it a second thought. But there was the little matter of being able to look at himself in the mirror. Of seeing good people damn themselves to hell over some impossible shit. There was that.
Sam stood there with his broad shoulders slumped slightly. John was the most likely threat, but Bobby wasn't counting Sam out either. The boy wanted, needed to have his brother back by his side. Sam's eyes were dark, full of shadows and pain that he didn't even bother to hide anymore.
"Sam, I figured you could talk some sense into your Dad. Seems I figured wrong. Neither one'a you is thinkin' straight when it comes to Dean."
Bastard doesn't know the half of it, John thought to himself. Summoning this bitch up from the depths dredged up all kinds of shit he'd just as soon forget.
Caliym laughs as she pushes the spikes into his arms and legs. He's spreadeagled on his back, pinned down to that rocky red floor. The stench of sulfur and blood fills his nose and mouth as she twists the spikes all the way in. Her smile brightens when his body bucks and twists with pain.
Your boy played you, hunter, she whispers in the shell of his right ear. Played you good. Oh, didn't he look all pale and weak and helpless lying there in that hospital bed after the crash? Caliym pouts, walks her slim fingers up and down John's bare thigh. Her fingertips are slicked with his blood and her long blue forked tongue darts out for a taste. Tugged at those daddy heartstrings of yours, didn't he? That old dog had you by the balls, Johnny boy. You were up on tiptoe and didn't even know it. Nice trick, huh?
They lie, John told himself. Demons lie.
He believed it. He held onto that. Every fucking day, every damn minute he was down there.
Over a week ago, at the Wayfarer Inn, he dreams one of the rare, peaceful good ones. Dean's little, bright blond and shy. Sam's smaller, all goggle-eyes, spit, and fat baby fists. Mary, sweet beautiful Mary, fills his days with laughter, smiles and promise of a future so bright it hurts. It's the good times back in Lawrence, before flames and screams, grim faced first responders and smoke-filled November nights. When John opens his eyes he's lying on his side. He blinks once. He can't move a muscle.
Dean is there.
Twice.
Mirror images of each other. One holds the other up. They both look beat to hell, but John instinctively knows which one is his boy. His son.
Dean stands there, and Coyote is next to him, and even though he knows better John hates the damned thing on sight, wants to get up and hook his fingers firmly around that throat and squeeze that yellow light out of those inhuman green eyes. John wants to wipe that curiously blank expression off Coyote's face. Make him flinch. Make him bleed.
But, it's Dean's face, so he can't. But a part of John wants to lash out so badly…
He lies there, unable to move.
Dean looks around the room, searches them out, hesitant, uncertain. His eyes widen, lingering on all three men, but on Sam and John most of all, and the mask slips. Fear, then relief overflows those fine features, and finally sadness settles over him, makes his face go horribly blank as he exhales, slow and ragged. He's reached the end. It's sweet relief, and John can see it plain as day. Dean's not a hunter anymore, not even the vessel for a demi-god. He sways slightly on his feet, tired and pale, looking far too young for his years, despite the light stubble, the bruises, blood, and the leather.
You take care of Sammy, John thinks. You take care of me. You always have, and you never complain, not even once. I made you grow up way too fast. I did that to you, and I'm sorry. Dean, I am so damn sorry….
"Let's go," Dean whispers roughly. "Go and never come back."
John's heart clenches painfully. Once. Twice.
Dean can't see John has his eyes open. It's Coyote casting some kind of damn glamour, has to be.
Don't go. Dean, please, don't, John shouts out loud and clear. The words echo inside his skull. He can't open his mouth to say the words, and Dean doesn't hear.
They leave, and then one of them comes back.
As soon as John lays eyes on him, he knows. John wants to yell at him. Don't wear my son's form, you bastard, you don't have the right. John's angry and fearful and confused. Coyote's expression is unreadable as he thrusts out his hand.
Here. Take this. Wear it.
John grasps Dean's amulet with numb, clumsy fingers.
Later on in the day at a rest stop half a state away John stands blinking in the bright sunlight, fingering the amulet around his neck, and the only question that comes to mind is: Why?
That night: You hunt and kill things like us, remember, Papa?
Why go to all that trouble?
I've seen your work. I don't trust you.
What was the damn point?
"I don't have to explain myself to you, Singer," John growled. "You'd best be on your way."
"I'm here as a friend, John."
"Didn't ask you to come, Bobby," The absence of any real heat in John's tone made Bobby's eyes narrow. You son-of-a-bitch. You knew. Knew I'd figure it out. Knew I'd come after you.
"Oooh," Caliym purred. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and folded her hands in front of her chest. "I've heard all about this angst and drama. Never thought I'd actually see it in the flesh."
"Shut your mouth, bitch," Sam and John snarled almost simultaneously, and Caliym smirked as she listened attentively.
"Bobby, I've gotta talk to Dean. I have to. Can't leave it the way it ended." Sam shook his head. "He's my brother, Bobby. I just…I just want him back."
"Okay Sam, so you talk to him. Then what? It's Dean and Coyote. You can't have one without the other. You two are on a mighty slippery slope here. One day you conjure up a demon to take you to Dean. What's next? Making a deal with one to change Dean, make him the way he was before all this happened?" Bobby's eyes widened as he caught that slight flinch of Sam's shoulders.
My God, he's been thinking about it, at least…
"What, you couldn't drive to New Mexico like normal people, you gotta go and do this?" Bobby sounded amazed and repulsed at the same time. "You're afraid Coyote will see you coming and take off, drag Dean off with him. I get that. I do."
John moved a little away from Sam. Wouldn't be long now. Watch the eyes. Mind's made up. He's gonna move…
"You raised a couple of fine young men, John. Don't know how you did it, you old fool, but you did. You gotta trust Dean now. You don't need this demon trash." He indicated Caliym with a wave of his hand. She scowled at him and Bobby ignored her. Being ignored pissed her off. "You gotta let Dean make his own decision."
John's eyes didn't flash, didn't even flicker as he pulled his gun out. The sound of the shot plowing into the ground in front of Bobby's work boots split the night air in two, flat and ugly.
Bobby didn't move. He didn't even flinch.
"Dad?" Sam sounded shocked, then just as quickly, irritated. This was Bobby, after all. "What the hell are you doing?" He sounded like the old Sam for once. Not depressed, just as stubborn, opinionated and bossy as ever.
One of his boys was back, for the moment at least. The corners of John's mouth quirked upwards in a slight smile. Yeah, he was fucked up mentally, all right. It was just like old times.
John kept the gun lowered at the ground in front of Bobby's feet. He could raise it up in a snap again, if he had to. They all knew that.
"Easy, Sam," John murmured softly.
"Dad, it's Bobby…"
"I know that, son," John said serenely. "Just paying him back for pulling that shotgun on me that time. It's okay."
John tilted his head slightly towards the Impala. "Don't sell the car, you bastard. I'll kick your ass if you do. We'll be back to pick it up later."
Bobby nodded curtly. Owe you one for this, you bastard.
John nodded back. I expect you do.
John turned his head slightly towards Caliym, and the look he gave her was more than enough.
Caliym, John and Sam faded out in a snap of jagged dark blue hellfire. Bobby couldn't suppress the shudder that clawed its way up his spine.
Two
Outskirts of Two Dogs Homestead
New Mexico
That same night
The young green-eyed male just sat there, rocking back and forth, slowly. He was bruised, a little bloody, but that skin of his was perfect. He was a beauty, and so was the cat woman he cradled in his arms.
One was alive. The other was lifeless. The nyx crouched in the shadows and watched with envious eyes.
They could appreciate human beauty. They understood it, knew what it took to lure a two-legger in close enough to catch one. Small, young human meatsuits were always good, harmless-looking until it was far too late. They used females and old humans. They used everything and everyone they caught or found.
They didn't kill them. Not exactly. The nyx knew a little dark magic. Not as much as the skinwalkers, but enough to get by. The victim's soul was bound to each skin. The better to mimic emotions. The better to fit in as they lured the other two-leggers into reach….
Dean saw what happened, knew the story behind each and every skin…
This one…
Kylie Griffin, 35. Snatched from a bus stop in Flagstaff.
Mister, please help me, I don't understand what's going on…
The nyx made do with what they caught, and when those skins were damaged they moved onto to the next human.
That one…
…Aaron Fletcher, 42, switched to working the night shift at the plant. More money. Had more mouths to feed at home. He was so busy changing the tire on the shoulder of the road he didn't react until it was too late. They grabbed him from behind and dragged him kicking and screaming into the bushes. The last thing he saw was the full moon overhead. The last thing he thought of was his wife and kids…
This can't be happening. It can't be…
Further back in the shadows, several of the nyx scratched and pulled at their ill-fitting skins, adjusted the stolen human skins over their bony arms and legs. Skin wrinkled down around their ankles like old socks. Sharp bony edges poked though thin worn facial skin, around the mouths and cheeks.
Dottie Lambert, 16. Ran away from home and her abusive parents the month before. She was careful who she hitched a ride with. At least, she tried to be. Little old lady, somebody's mother, somebody's grandmother, driving an old battered car picked her up around midnight. Something came lunging over the back seat at Dottie as soon as the door closed. The old woman laughed and laughed, a low shrieking sound, like a hyena.
Oh God, please, I wanna go home…
All of them…
Christopher Sands, 18 months old. He was a quiet baby. He was quiet even then, as the thing wearing his mother's skin stood over his crib and wrapped its fingers around his throat. It laughed as Christopher's legs kicked and his lips turned blue.
Dean knew and saw it all.
He cradled Redd and rocked back and forth, slowly, steadily.
Dead because of me…
He'd failed. They'd failed. They'd lost their loved ones, and they wanted to die.
All because'a me…my fault…this is all my fault…
Head down, tail between his legs, Coyote got up and turned around in place underneath the tree in the headspace. The Old Man's skin rippled underneath his fur.
Outside Dean trembled as a shudder ran through his body.
Coyote made a choked, muffled noise that might have been a sob, and the sound echoed in Dean's throat.
The nyx matriarch pushed her way out of the shadows and sniggered.
"Tattered, ragged little boy," she purred, all low and sly.
Dean stopped rocking, gradually, with slight hitching motions, like a wind up toy with a broken inner spring. He lifted his head slowly and stared at her, and she actually preened under his attention.
The nyx grinned to herself. The male she wore fit her well, looked healthier and cleaner than the rest. The skin was still relatively pinkish tan and smooth. She'd kept the clothes as clean as she could. From six feet away she could still pass as a normal human. She could even turn her eyes from her normal blank white to the original brown color. She licked her lips as she stared the young one up and down.
There wasn't any fear in those blank green eyes, but there soon would be.
"Why you gotta think so loud, huh?" she told him.
The other nyx took their clue from her when green eyes didn't move. He sat there, frozen in place as they moved towards him. The full moon slid out from behind the clouds above, bathing the hillside in bright moonlight.
They arranged themselves in a ring around him, and the ring began to close.
Twenty nyx.
Twenty skins. Twenty victims.
"The rest of them still think you're weak," the wolf had said. "They'll hunt you like a dog for the rest of your days."
Not them. Not Other.
But these will do, for a start.
Time, Dean thought as he stared at them, and his gaze went from blank to yellow and fierce. Coyote chuffed softly in acknowledgement.
Time for payback.
Time to spread the word.
Time to kill some evil sonsabitches and raise a little hell.
You do not know who you are fuckin' with.
Dean willed the illusion of Redd's body away, a shimmer of cold heat in the cool desert air. He got to his feet with a smooth preternatural quickness, and the air around him fairly crackled with force and golden energy. The sparse grass beneath his feet rippled outward in concentric waves. The matriarch took a few stumbling steps backwards, and cursed herself for showing such weakness in front of the others.
"Tricky meat," the matriarch spat, her eyes blank white. Dean laughed.
"Well, now," he drawled, and she could've sworn the ground underneath her feet rumbled as he spoke. "Are we havin' fun yet?"
"Dean." The thing mouthed his name like a curse word, a taunt. Dean's eyes narrowed. A shudder ran through that stolen skin and she dropped to all fours, limbs shifting smoothly into position. Her eyes went from blank white to amber red.
"Dean," she repeated happily. She cocked her head to one side and grinned. "They told us all about you. Led us to you. Gave us your name. Dean Michael Winchester. Eldest son of John and Mary. Brother to Sam…."
Dean snarled, deep in his throat. Wolf taint. Skinwalker. Other…
"Names have power. Your power. We know some things. We have a little juice. You're weak, little dog. You're nothing. We'll take everything now. Everything."
They crowded all around Dean now, snarling. Some of them yelped, laughing. Fingers lengthened into claws. They grinned at him, mouths overflowing with long jagged yellow teeth.
Dean stared all around him. He smiled right back, bright and feral. "Then you'd best get to work."
Dean's eyes flared bright hot yellow. The glow blinded the ones nearest to him. They stumbled backwards to escape the heat.
He turned his face up towards the moon. Dean sang. He howled. Coyote added his voice, head thrown back, eyes closed. Two voices, slightly out of sync at first, but then as the long notes rose into the night air those two voices blended into one. They filled the empty spaces in the world with their voices. It sounded like howling, but it wasn't. Sounded like ancient words from back in the day, but it was more than that. Much more.
It was a declaration of war.
I am the wayward son of the First People…
The nyx matriarch died first.
God's Dog…First Artist…
She staggered backwards as the force of their combined voices hit her. The skin she wore rippled over her bones ---Bobby Harrison, 23, missing since 2006 --- and the matriarch screamed as the stolen skin dissolved and Harrison's soul, long glowing streamers of golden energy, floated into the night air.
You have not seen my like before or since.
The nyx crumbled into coarse gray sand blown about by the wind.
Come and get me.
I will kill you all.
You can hide in the farthest corner of hell
Miles away, the wolf 'shifter and the other skinwalkers huddled together in a deep dark cave. Their skins rippled with the heat of Dean and Coyote's rage. The floor of the cave became slick and sticky with blood that ran from their ears.
Won't matter how deep, or how far.
He placed Redd's body in the kiva. Her spirit was gone. They'd done something to her, and he couldn't bring her back.
I will hunt you down.
I will slaughter all you evil sonsabitches.
Wherever, whenever I find you.
Slymm was missing. He couldn't sense her anywhere. There was no body. Nothing.
Vision–flash of Thomas walking into the desert away from the house hours before, a shotgun slung lazily over one shoulder, his eyes glowing amber-red. Laughing, smiling as the Others walked and slithered and flew through the darkening air all around him.
Bertha on her knees in town, miles away, bleeding, as the paramedics hovered around her. Keening, rocking back and forth in place as she watched Thomas go. Dean recognized one of the paramedics. It was Bear.
I will find my lost people, and I will bring them home.
Three
He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The place was a slaughterhouse. Bones in the corral, blood splashed on the ground.
She pushed him into the wall of the house hard, and he nearly groaned aloud as something in his back creaked painfully, almost to the breaking point.
"Daddy dearest believed those old books about me having to serve one day out of the year," Caliym said happily. Her pitch black eyes reflected the full moon overhead back up at Sam. She pushed him up the wall a little more, her right hand hooked into a claw underneath his jawline, and Sam gagged. "They were right about you Winchesters all along. You're all so much fun to play with."
"Where's…where's my dad?" Sam choked out.
"Oh, John? He's over there, Sam boy," Caliym nodded over to Sam's left. She loosened her hold just enough to allow Sam to move his head in that direction.
John Winchester lay face down in the shadows on the ground. He wasn't moving. Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing or not.
Caliym caught the stricken look on Sam's face and smirked. "Oh, he's not dead. Not yet, anyway. After all, the man gave me a free ride topside. I didn't even have to work for it. Be a tad ungrateful to kill him outright, don't you think?"
"I'll...I'll kill you if you touch him again. You hear me? I'll kill you..." Sam gasped.
"Boring." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Pay attention, will you?" She tightened her grip and thumped his head back against the wall once, sharply. "Hear that?"
It was howling in the distance. It was words.
Sam's eyes widened. "Dean…"
"Smart boy," Caliym nodded. "War's been declared. I'll make this quick. You won't feel it. Much. I don't have time to play with you, Sammy. Gotta see a man about a dog."
Her fingers dug deeply into his throat and the bitch kept right on smiling.
000
Figured I'd stop it right here, otherwise this chapter would have been really really long. . Come on now, don't be shy. Let me know what you think. One more chapter and an epilogue in which Bobby Singer gets his two cents in.
BTW (Pop culture references):
"Time to kill some evil sonsabitches and raise a little hell." – Dean Winchester, Supernatural, The Magnificent Seven
"You do not know who you are fuckin' with." – Richard Riddick (Vin Diesel), Pitch Black.
