Judging by the contraction of Dean's brows and the grim set of his mouth, Ruthie knew he'd understood her signal. And he was worried. Not reassuring.
Especially when she was being held in an iron grip by this…thing. She wasn't even completely sure this was real, that she wasn't having a bizarre nightmare brought on by the stranger she'd let into her house, with all his crazy talk about hunting bad guys—bad guys who could leave foot-long gouges across his chest.
Then the man, creature, whatever it was, squeezed its hairy hand tighter over her mouth, its nails pinching deeper into the skin of her cheek.
No. This was real.
She sucked in an unsteady breath through her nose. Heat rebounded off the creature's hand when she exhaled. It stank like wet dog. She couldn't get enough air; spots formed in front of her eyes, and her gums buzzed. A detached part of her recognized the symptoms of hyperventilation. She ordered herself to calm down.
She pulled her eyes away from Dean's long enough to locate the shotgun: right where she'd left it, leaning against the wall beside the black stove. About eight feet ahead and to her left. It might as well be on the moon. This thing's arms were like a steel cage.
"Sam's meeting me here," Dean was saying. "He's probably outside right now."
Hot breaths came a little faster against her cheek. "You're lying," it said, but doubt tinged its growling voice.
"You think?" Dean said. "You're about to have your paws pretty full. You better let her go."
"So you can shoot me?" it barked. "I don't think so." Its arm tightened around her, squeezing until she could barely breathe, until she was sure her ribs would break. "Drop your gun!"
Dean glared at the thing, gun still leveled at its face. The creature's head moved behind her, sliding slowly down and to the right. Its breath came hot and wet against her neck, and her body went stiff. Two hard, sharp points pressed into the soft skin on the side of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Okay. Okay!" Dean's voice sounded gruff and urgent. She squinted her eyes open a slit. He had turned the .45 to the side and was slowly lowering it. He set it on the bed and straightened again, hands up on each side. "There. Now let her go."
The fangs pulled away; the hot breath receded. Then, with an almost casual flick of its arm, the creature flung her backwards through the kitchen. She smashed into the lower cabinets and landed in a stunned heap on the floor. The force of the impact drove the breath out of her. For several seconds she could only clutch at her chest, making croaking noises, trying to breathe. Dean and the creature were speaking to each other in tense tones, but she couldn't make out the words over the ringing in her ears—not that it mattered. All that mattered was air.
Finally, her lungs seemed to unclench, and she gasped. She coughed, choked, and gasped again, sucking in air as though she'd been held underwater. With the oxygen came clearer thoughts. She needed a plan. Whatever that thing was, it was stronger than any man. It had already hurt Dean once, and now it was back to finish the job. And it wasn't alone. She'd seen the other one, a stocky man—if it was a man—with a beard, in a dark coat, wrenching open the door of the tractor cab, reaching for Vern, the instant before this one grabbed her.
And Dean had put down the gun.
From her spot on the kitchen floor, she eyed the shotgun. She'd have to get eight feet past the monster, pick up the gun, turn and shoot before it caught her.
Not possible.
She couldn't see Dean from down here on the floor. The thing, standing with its back to her, was laughing now, a raspy, animal noise that made her skin crawl.
Ruthie silently pushed herself into a crouch, high enough to see Dean. Steam from the simmering hot chocolate on the stove made his face ripple. He didn't take his eyes off the intruder, but the corner of his jaw flexed. She didn't know if that was supposed to be a signal, or if it was just an involuntary reaction to seeing her. The .45 was still lying on the bed.
"I'm gonna be legendary," the creature was saying. "The werewolf who ended the Winchesters. It's just too bad most of my pack isn't alive to see it."
Did he say werewolf?
"Yeah, sorry not sorry." Dean's voice betrayed nothing, but his whole body was tensed. At his sides, white knuckles stood out from his fists.
The creature—the werewolf—took a step toward Dean. "I'm really gonna enjoy wiping that smug look off your face. I'm gonna take my time. You're gonna watch while I eat your spleen."
Dean made a face. "I'll pass. Don't wanna spoil my appetite. I'm having apple pie for breakfast."
"Kidneys next." The werewolf took another step. "Then liver. I'll save your heart for last. And the girl for dessert."
Dean gave a slow blink, then shook his head as though trying to rouse himself. "Do you always talk your victims to death?"
It didn't respond. Ruthie saw it crouch; Dean shifted his feet apart, bracing himself.
She didn't even think. In one forward leap, she crossed the tiny kitchen and grabbed the handle of the saucepan. The werewolf spun around as she swung the pan at its startled face.
The rim of the saucepan cracked against its forehead; a wave of scalding hot chocolate cascaded over its face, down its neck, everywhere. The wolf yowled and staggered toward her, clawed hands swiping at her blindly.
"Ruthie, get down!" Dean yelled.
She dropped to all fours, and a loud crack filled the little cabin. The werewolf landed on top of her, knocking her flat. She flailed in a panic and it rolled off her. It lay motionless beside her, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.
Shaking, Ruthie pushed herself to her knees. Dean burst into the kitchen, .45 in one hand and the shotgun in the other. "You okay?" He stuffed the handgun into the back of his waistband, then extended his hand toward her.
She reached up and took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She had no idea how to answer the question. Dazed as she was, she still remembered one crucial fact. "There's another one out there! Don't put your gun away."
Dean looked grim. "I'm empty."
Before she could ask why a professional werewolf hunter was wandering the forest with only a single round in his weapon, the back door burst open, splintered pieces of the door frame flying through the cabin like shrapnel. The dead werewolf's stocky partner growled at them, eyes glowing, protruding teeth bared. Those teeth, as well as its beard, were smeared with blood. The creature glanced down at the floor, at the widening red pool spreading from its partner's corpse. With a howl, it hurled itself at Dean.
A skull-rattling shotreverberated off the cabin's log walls. The werewolf crumpled in midair and crashed onto the floor. Dean pumped the shotgun, then grabbed Ruthie's hand. "Let's go!" He ran to the front door, pulling her along. She managed to grab her truck keys off the hook in the little hallway while he half-dragged her through.
Why was he running like the devil was still at their heels? "Dean—!"
"He said most of his pack was dead. If we missed one, we could've missed others."
Icy air slapped her in the face. Vern's tractor was still parked out front. A spray of bright red splashed the snow on the far side, by the empty cab. Dean headed for her truck, still towing her in his wake. She yanked her hand away, staring at the tractor and the blood.
"Ruthie, we gotta go."
"Vern. I have to see if he's…" she trailed off, taking a step off the shoveled walk into the thigh-deep snow.
Dean caught her arm. "You can't help him."
"I have to know." She tried to keep going, but he held on.
"Ruthie."
She wheeled around, ready to scream at him, but his expression stopped her. Not impatience or irritation, but compassion.
"I'll go. You don't want to see this." He scanned the surrounding woods, glanced back at the cabin, then stepped into the deep snow and pushed his way toward the tractor. He reached the front and went around the side, to where the snow was splashed scarlet. For a moment he stood still, staring at the ground. Then his chin dropped to his chest.
He turned and waded back through his own tracks. Back on the shoveled walk, he shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Ruthie took a shaky breath.
"Come on," he said. "I'll drive."
She started to shake her head, to turn toward the driver's side of the truck, but realized her knees felt like water. Her hands trembled; she was quivering all over.
Dean was watching her, waiting for her answer. His face was solemn, but still. Breathing normal. No shaking. Like he did this every day.
She held out the keys.
