AN: As far as bad language goes, this story has been pretty tame, so I'll warn you – there's some cursing in this chapter. Very little of it is in English, but still...you've been warned.
Janice did her normal wonderful beta work plus made some super comments to make this chapter better.
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Long after the cuts on his stomach stopped bleeding, Dean held the shirt over them. While nobody had scented him yet and he knew that ash was good at masking odors, he didn't want to risk someone getting a whiff of human blood. The longer they stayed nearby, the greater the possibility that someone would smell something. Or someone would think to check the chimney.
Dean closed his eyes and listened, trying to figure out how many of the werewolves were in the room. It was a good distraction from his muscles that were starting to cramp from holding still for so long. He could only catch a word here or there but heard two different voices. They referred to the room they were in as the "hearth room" and seemed to be talking about some kind of den. Whether that meant a lounge room or an actual, like, wolf den, Dean didn't know. It was probably the former. Even the most feral weres they'd faced had lived like humans most of the time, in houses and apartments.
"...that?" the deeper voice said suddenly. "Hey, look! ...delicious."
The other guy said something Dean couldn't catch, but the tone was doubtful.
"...care if we don't eat too many," deep voice reassured. He sounded excited. "C'mon!"
Dean concentrated harder. There was the sound of running steps, then silence. Was he that lucky? Were they really gone, chasing down some fast food? He couldn't just wait forever, so Dean discarded his shirt and inched his rear toward the edge of his hard seat, straining his ears for any sound at all. In one quick motion, he jumped down lightly, landing on the balls of his feet in a crouch with his knife in his hand.
The room was empty. Even the body of the werewolf chick was gone. Dean could hear voices nearby, and he decided that he'd better go ahead and draw Kade's glyph after all. He wasn't looking forward to the icy water or the dive down to another glyph, but he was still outnumbered like fifteen to one here.
But first...Dean hurried to get the door closed. Just before he did, a small shape ducked inside. "Timothy?" Dean asked in a whisper, then silently cursed himself out for falling into the trap of calling a little monster by name and risking getting attached to it. He closed the door quietly and pulled one of the wingbacks in front of it to maybe gain himself a few seconds. "Did you lead them away from me?" He would have sworn the romplet looked smug, and Dean scratched its head. Not because he liked the thing, but it deserved a little attention if it had drawn the werewolves away.
Dean glanced over the room looking for a surface flat enough for him to draw the complicated symbol he needed. The wallpaper was raised brocade, making the walls unusable, and the carpet wouldn't work. That left the marble that extended out from the fireplace. He ignored the way that Sam's pet monster jumped onto his shoulders and rubbed against his head, making a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr. He'd have shooed it off, but it was faster to just ignore it. Really.
Dean cut his forearm and started fingerpainting. He was about halfway through his project when something occurred to him. "I think only humans can go through these, buddy," he said, then bit his tongue for sounding almost affectionate. "I'm sorry 'bout that." He was, too, which definitely meant he was losing his marbles.
That was when someone tried the door. Dean moved faster while still trying to stay accurate. He remembered well how it had taken a few tries to get the sigil right back when they were with Kade the first time. He doubted his pursuers would give him a chance for a mulligan if he screwed up.
As if to prove his point, the voices outside the door rose. The door trembled as someone hit it. "You should hide," Dean warned the rompo as he started the final lines. A series of solid blows shook the door, then it cracked around the doorknob and the chair moved a little. Dean knew his time was almost up.
He traced the final curve as the door exploded halfway open, sending splinters flying and the chair flopping onto its back, still partially blocking the opening. The original werewolf Dean had chased jumped over the chair back and dove at Dean. And disappeared into the glyph.
Huh. Guess werewolves were human enough. The second and third wolves jumped in while Dean was still staring. One dove at Dean just like the pasty one had, and Dean stepped aside like a matador. The second pulled up so fast Dean would swear he heard the screech of brakes as the chick tried to reconcile the fact that her buddy had just disappeared. Her shock made it too easy for Dean to shove her toward his accidental trap. He couldn't help but laugh as she disappeared too.
"I wonder if werewolves are good swimmers," he commented to Timothy, who'd jumped to the mantel as soon as the fun had started. Dean scratched his chin, too amused by the unexpected way this was turning out to care much that he might be getting just a tiny bit attached to the rompo, which he had sworn he wouldn't do. "I wonder if Kade likes the taste of wolf…"
Dean didn't try to leave the room or hide the busted door or anything. He just waited, standing in front of the glyph he'd drawn. He'd taken out two of the weres before the one that looked like Morticia, and three had now gone to visit the Gonakadet. If they'd all been in that first room, there were ten or twelve left to deal with. Still too many to face with a single knife. But even if they all came at once, there was a good chance he could send them all to face Kade. He silently apologized to their ally for polluting his tank.
The werewolves that found Dean could hardly have been more cooperative. They came in ones and twos, all charging without hesitation, and Dean gleefully tossed, shoved, and encouraged them into his trap. He wasn't going to have to do another arctic swim, but they were. Timothy chirped his encouragement and scolded the wolves from his perch on the mantel. Dean would have sworn the rompo was laughing right along with him. If not for the fact that there were still at least six werewolves out there, it would have been the perfect fight. Too bad Dean couldn't just wait around for the rest forever because throwing werewolves through a magic portal was kind of like living inside the greatest video game of all time.
As tired as he was, Dean was in a pretty good mood now. He took a deep breath and was pleased that even after his exertions his stomach was barely bleeding. "You can come with. I guess," he told Timothy, not doing a very good job of faking reluctance even to his own ears. A little of the giddiness receded when Dean thought about how pissed Sam had to be by now. "I'll grab the key before I go back," he told the rompo, which had climbed onto his shoulders again. "Then he won't be so mad."
Yeah, Dean didn't believe that either. But getting the key couldn't hurt his case.
He'd had a lot of time to think while sitting inside the chimney (which he was never telling Sam about) and Dean was pretty certain that he knew approximately where he was in the house. He should be on the right floor but the wrong wing. If he could find the huge central staircase he'd be on the right track. Then he just had to go down the last hallway off the gigantic landing.
It was slow going having to watch and listen for monsters and traps every step and it was like an itch under his skin not knowing where the last werewolves were, not to mention leaving them alive. Luckily, Timothy was as silent and stealthy as Dean could have asked for as he alternated between riding on his shoulder and padding alongside.
They reached the room at the top of the stairs without incident, surprisingly. Dean stopped to scope out the large, open room in front of him, knowing how vulnerable he'd be crossing it – visible to anyone on the steps or in any of the hallways that extended out like spokes. It would be the perfect place to stake out if you were trying to catch someone.
A bit of movement caught Dean's eye, but it took him a second to make sense of what he was seeing. Heading vaguely his way was a knee-high wooden carving of two humanoid shapes joined where their hands should have been as if they were dancing. With no visible external means of moving, the carving tipped onto one of the figure's legs, rotated so the other figure was closer to Dean, the leaned the other way and repeated the move with the other side. In so doing, it "walked" across the floor. In a house (and life) overflowing with the weird, it was still pretty odd. It didn't seem to pose a threat, so Dean ignored it in favor of surveilling the open area once more. There were lights flickering down the hall he needed, but again, he didn't see any werewolves or other monsters, but he didn't fool himself that he'd be safe crossing the expanse. Still, there was no other option.
Knife in his hand, Dean gestured minutely to the rompo, wondering as he did so when he'd started treating him – it! – like some kind of dog. Then he put it out of his mind and sprinted across the open space.
There. A handful of werewolves charged at Dean from the last hallway before the one he needed. He ducked the first, who tripped over Timothy and went hurtling down the stairs. Dean made it to the entrance of the correct hallway before the second reached him. In a practiced move, he turned sideways away from slashing claws and slit the guy's throat. Blood arced over the wall. Werewolves were tough, meaning the fall probably hadn't incapacitated the first attacker, but the second was almost certainly down for the count. A hand grabbed Dean's arm almost to the shoulder, claws digging into his skin. It was a dark-haired female wolf nearly as tall as he was. Grunting from the pain, Dean used her momentum against her, turning and shoving her so she fell against a slightly open door that had tiny lightning bolts jumping across it like some kind of Tesla coil. Similar random flashes of light emerged from inside the room, visible through the door opening.
As soon as the werewolf touched the door, she made a small, strangled sound and her body started to jerk and shake like she'd fallen on a live wire. Dean didn't know what exactly had happened, but she was definitely dead, though she didn't fall, just kept jerking like a marionette. The smell of burnt flesh was already filling the hall. Another wolf turned away from pursuing Dean and foolishly grabbed his friend, only to start shaking just as hard as her body was.
Got it, Dean thought, running again. Don't touch that door.
Someone slammed into Dean's shoulder as he opened the door to the music room, and he and the werewolf who'd caught up both fell into the room. He'd chosen to go in partially because he knew there were lots of options for improvised weapons and partially because it was where he wanted to end up anyway.
Dean and the newest werewolf rolled across the floor together. It took everything Dean had to keep the claws and teeth away from himself. Like all of his kind, the blond wolf was supernaturally strong and so incensed that he was snarling constantly, spittle flying.
The rolling ended abruptly as Dean slammed into something long and hard. His shoulder took the brunt of the hit and his arm went numb, making him drop the knife. For a moment, he couldn't get his affected hand to even move. He realized that inattention was death but couldn't make his body respond fast enough to stop the next attack.
The world spun and Dean's shoulder screamed. He realized that he was on his knees with his arms held behind him. Blondie's chubby friend was talking. He reached down to the busted piano and ripped something out, then measured it between his hands like some mobster hitman. Mobster. He wasn't going to just rip Dean's heart out. He was going to use piano wire as a garrote, Godfather-style. At least Dean had been too distracted to hear the undoubtedly gloating speech.
"...Winchester," chubby was concluding. "We will be the ones that the mistress –"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean interrupted, tugging at his arms only to get shoved forward and a knee put in his back. Well practiced with blustering his way through terrible situations, Dean never stopped talking or let the pain color his voice. "Let me guess – the werewolf who bit you died of syphilis afterwards, right?"
Chubby gave an outraged snarl, echoed by the were holding Dean's arms. The former stepped closer to Dean and, despite his struggles, got the wire wrapped around his neck.
Well, shit.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam thought the fall would take longer, but he barely had time to register this is bad before he slapped into something so hard that all of his breath and most of his coherence were knocked right out of him. The former actually turned out to be a good thing, because as the latter improved a little bit, Sam realized that he was in the water. He couldn't make sense of the lights he saw no matter which way he looked or gather his scattered thoughts enough to figure out where he could be.
In one direction there was a row of bright white lights. The opposite way was dimmer lights, some white and some gold. Birds, he thought, but couldn't attach the word to anything. Lungs burning enough to overshadow the shock-pain-cold in the rest of his body, Sam got his limbs to cooperate enough to turn toward the gold. For just a few seconds, he could breathe, but the third inhale brought him only water. Confused and hurting, Sam flailed ineffectively, not sure how much his arms and legs were actually even moving from his efforts. For an interminable amount of time he struggled, getting only a modicum of air. Another inhale of water made Sam curl helplessly in on himself as his vision darkened.
Then he was being hauled up and out of the water by familiar hands. Dean, Sam thought, immensely relieved that his brother was with him. Sam was dropped heavily onto the cement ground, the impact forcing water out of his lungs and sending him into a paroxysm of coughing that nearly made him black out the rest of the way.
"That's right, pendejo. Breathe. I'm not quite ready for you to die yet," said his rescuer reminding Sam that, right, it wasn't Dean after all.
Sam wanted to respond to the insult or use the knife that was somehow still in his hand or something, but all he could do was to huddle and cough and fight for consciousness.
I'm not hurt that badly, he decided despite the way the coughing sent pain zinging through his torso. His automatic self-assessment was that he was more shocked by the impact than damaged. If only he could get his brain a little more connected to his body…
"Alright, get up, little bro. There's someone you need to meet. Vamos. Move it," Dean's voice said in a tone that was completely at odds with how the real Dean would have sounded in this situation.
"Not," Sam coughed out, wanting to protest the nickname but unable to stop hacking enough to get any more out.
The shifter seemed to get it, however, because he snorted a laugh. "I'm the only brother you've got left, Sammy," he taunted, apparently done waiting for Sam to move, since he grabbed him by one arm. He pulled Sam to a seated position and began to drag him across the cement pool deck that Sam could finally make out. "I told the werewolf pack that it's time to trim the herd, if you know what I mean, and whoever killed your brother would be guaranteed not to be voted off the island. So he's wolf chow by now, gilipollas." He didn't stop walking, dragging Sam into the house and across a tile floor, which wasn't helping Sam's vision to settle at all.
C'mon, body, cooperate, Sam thought even as he processed the shifter's chilling words. Why could he translate another Spanish insult but not get his body to cooperate enough to stab his captor in the foot or something?
"Underestimating him," Sam croaked, pleased to get so many syllables out. He couldn't help the flare of worry that the idea of Dean facing a 'pack' of werewolves alone and poorly armed caused, but he believed in his brother's ability to come through it okay. And he wouldn't let some shapeshifting witch's pet underestimate Dean. Slower than it normally would have, the guy's confidence and apparent leadership role clicked in Sam's mind. "Raeford," he continued.
The walking stopped so abruptly that Sam would have landed on his face if the bruising grip on his arm hadn't held him up. "How...where did you hear that name?" the shifter asked, voice low and deadly. When Sam only gave him a smug if slightly bleary smile, he shook the hunter. Then he started walking again as suddenly as he'd stopped. "It doesn't matter what you've figured out. The mistress has told me enough that I know a far worse fate than just killing you. Our demon needs a new host, and we can't convince the thing to inhabit a werewolf. It just keeps tearing them apart." He shoved Sam down a handful of stairs, following at a leisurely pace. "Which is entertaining, I grant you, but the mistress is a little concerned that it will totally burn out its meat suit and not have as much power."
Sam had let his body flop painfully down the stairs, acting like he couldn't help it, hoping Raeford didn't realize that his head was slowly starting to clear. He still felt a little like an empty puppet, but it was getting better by slow increments. He clutched the knife tighter and kept it out of sight under his body. Only then did he register the room they were in. It looked similar in style to the small library that the siren had been in but was significantly larger. One wall was lined with windows that revealed the burgeoning sunrise, showing Sam that he was way at the end of the east wing. The rest of the walls had bookshelves reaching nearly to the ceiling. In front of the bank of windows sat a grand redwood desk, as big as a small car. The whole room was done in shades of blue with wrought iron accents. There were tall, comfortable-looking leather chairs here and there, but none behind the desk itself, helping solidify in Sam's mind that this had truly been Beaumont's study, since a man in a wheelchair wouldn't have a desk chair.
Sam noted all of this while consciously breathing slowly and testing his muscles. He'd had just about enough of being dragged along like a rag doll. He had a special hatred for shapeshifters who took on Dean's form. The others who'd dared had died, and Raeford would too.
Unconcerned with Sam in the slightest, Raeford walked over to the wall to Sam's left and did something he couldn't see. The entire wall slid nearly soundlessly open to reveal a much smaller room, empty except for a pathetic, black-eyed figure huddled in the middle of the cement floor. It was a mostly naked human male, just a few scraps of filthy clothing left, and so emaciated that he couldn't possibly have survived, much less moved, without the demon inside animating him.
Arching like a feral thing, the demon looked up at the two visitors. With just a few hairs on its head and its mouth sunk in with no teeth to round it out, it looked weak and pathetic, but Sam was well aware that a demon in any state was dangerous.
"Muevete, gusano," Raeford snapped, and the demon scuttled back against the far wall. "¡Ándale!" When he turned back to grab Sam, Sam was ready. He used the motion of being hauled to his feet to amplify the strength of the swing of his arm, grabbing hold of Raeford's belt with his left hand to give himself more leverage.
The knife should have gone into Raeford's black heart, but three things got in the way. First, Sam's right foot, still bare, slipped on the smooth floor. Second, he was still weak and disoriented from his fall into the pool. Third, the shifter was really fast. Raeford pivoted back as the knife came toward his chest and it sank in just below his collarbone instead of his heart.
Raeford yowled and the world went topsy-turvy as he shoved Sam back and slammed him onto the floor. For a split second, Sam was focused on holding onto the knife, which had come out of the wound, then the back of his head smashed into the floor.
Reality jumped on a carousel and Sam was dragged along for the ride. If he'd been disoriented before, now he was just lost, a bit of flotsam tossed about completely outside of his control or will, helpless to do anything but wait for sensory input that he could actually interpret. The only thoughts he could muster were disjointed at best.
Hurt? Dean. Knife. Noise. Words? The words flowing around Sam, expelled forcefully into the air, didn't make any sense whatsoever. Not English. Not Dean. He opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed and almost slammed them shut again when the world around him wavered. Concussion, said his brain, and he recognized that even that word took longer to arrive than it normally would have.
Dean not Dean, Raeford was spewing swear words that Sam knew because of his Stanford friend Luis, whose rather foul mouth had been the source of 90% of the really interesting Spanish that Sam knew. Sam blinked to see that the shifter had reached for something, the knife, the curved knife that Sam wasn't supposed to be able to touch, and recoiled like he'd been burned.
"Keep the maldito knife," the shifter snarled, and Sam was pleased that the words made sense to his agonized brain, which was beginning to send pain signals again. "It won't help you." He stepped back into the doorway and told someone out of Sam's line of sight, " Ahora. Now."
Sam turned his eyes, not quite ready to move his head given how desperately that back of it was throbbing, and saw a skeletal form throw back its head to expel a stream of black smoke. Demon. It looked as thin and sickly as the human form. The smoke descended on Sam and for a moment, he felt the familiar feeling of choking as something (some one) tried to force themselves inside of him. He had a flashback to Gadreel's horror as Crowley invaded – and then it withdrew.
"Can't," Sam slurred, pleased to even get a word out.
Raeford made a grunt/snarl sound full of anger and frustration. Sam could see him holding his wounded shoulder. "Doesn't matter. You'll still be dead after he tears you into confetti." His lip curled. "Have fun, little brother."
Sam just managed to prop himself up on one elbow. While he'd been trying to fit his brain back in his skull, Raeford had fastened a manacle around his ankle. The other end of the chain disappeared into the floor. The floor itself, Sam could now see, had a devil's trap etched into it the size of the room itself, very similar to the set-up of the bunker's dungeon. As Sam looked, his sight still bobbing around unnervingly, the demon's essence invaded the wasted body again. It sat up with a hiss and Raeford laughed darkly and turned to leave Sam to his fate.
The fact that the shifter was using Dean's appearance pissed Sam off all over again, even temporarily overshadowing his fear of being at the mercy of the demon. His favorite phrase from Luis came back to him. With all his strength, Sam called, "¡Que te folle un pez!"
Strength failing him, Sam fell back as the demon advanced with a wild, toothless grin.
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AN: Most of the Spanish comes out of my (somewhat unreliable) brain, though I did double-check some of it with Google translate. I am not even close to fluent in Spanish, so my apologies if I got anything wrong. Here are the Spanish words in this chapter: pendejo – moron, gilipollas – douche, muevete – move it, gusano – worm or maggot, ándale – hurry up, maldito – damn, ahora – now. Don't write that I missed one, because I'm not telling you what Sam said. If you want to look it up, that's on you!
Princess of the Fae: Well, not yet...but I've only killed off a major character once, and that was when I was writing to predict how the show would end, so they'll probably be okay.
sfaulkenberry: I have a weakness for writing Sam bonding with something small and furry, I've discovered. Of course, I also have a weakness for Sam in general, and for animals in general, so I guess it makes sense that I like them together, too. Dean is getting his chance to bond with Timothy now, who is proving himself pretty useful. Sam could definitely use some help, but so could Dean now...hehe.
Jenjoremy: For some reason, the second part of your comment hit me right in the funny bone. See what happens when you run off Dean? You could definitely continue that train of thought after this chapter too. Now Sam's getting fed to an emaciated demon and you're getting garroted by a werewolf. LOL
muffinroo: When I picked that for a chapter title, all I could think was that it could be the title of almost all of my fanfics. That or "Well, That Didn't Go As Planned." I'm glad that my rather random references and blatant Sam abuse make you happy! LOL Seriously, though, thanks for the nice words.
Christine: Nice call! How I love smart readers. Timothy is back, or was for a while. This story really could go on forever...I'll probably keep writing until y'all are sick of it. Or sick of me. And sorry/you're welcome for not one but two more cliffhangers!
sylvia37: In terms of this story, you are correct on all counts! Hehe.
stedan: Is it ever a good idea for the Winchesters to split up? Not in my stories, it isn't, that's for sure. You're absolutely right that Sam should have followed Timothy. People keep underestimating the rompo! He's back and being helpful. Yeah, it would have been too easy for Dean to show up to help Sam yet...I love that you know that about my writing! And, yeah, I did kind of throw Sam off a balcony. Oops.
waitingforAslan: I would definitely be claustrophobic sitting in a chimney! And what you said about Sam and Dean is very insightful; I've been thinking about it since I read it. (And I adore ideas that grab me like that! Kudos to you.) Thanks for commenting!
Anne: I'm always unreasonably giddy when I discover someone who shares my sense of humor! And I'm thrilled that this story makes you laugh. *g* I consider people being disappointed to find themselves at the end of a chapter pretty much the ultimate compliment. Thank you for your comments!
Colby's girl: You are so right about the guys separating! I've seen ads for those immersive Van Gogh exhibits and I bet that's an amazing experience. I'm sure I'd lose myself in one. Hopefully no statues came to life at your Van Gogh experience! lol