I have a pretty good head start on him - he has to get around the car, hop over the guard rail and cut across an empty parking lot, before he really starts to gain on me. And holy shit, it happens quickly; he's fast. Out of desperation (and I'll admit, I'm not really thinking clearly anymore), I dart across the road and into the forest. Maybe I can lose him in the trees.
Not such a good plan. The sense of open air disappears when I break into the tree line. I feel hemmed in and trapped, running headlong through bushes and brush. The sting of tree limbs striping my bare arms tells me I'll have scratches there in the morning, and besides the whip of those, my path is full of bushes and roots and any other number of things to trip me up (deadwood, the odd boulder-sized pebble). It slows me down, with it being so dark - the moon barely sneaking past the leaves. And there's a gnawing certainty that he's moving faster than I am.
I know this for sure, when I round a cluster of trees, foolishly thinking, "I can do this, he won't catch me." Then the sound of movement behind and to the right is suddenly right behind me and a strong arm catches me around the middle, lifting me off the ground in mid-stride.
He hauls me up against him and Jesus he's strong. I must be flailing around, because his hold tightens, squeezing what air I have left out of my lungs. "Kelsey, stop!" Dean growls, low and tight, close to my ear, making my breath hitch. He wraps his other arm around me, catches one of my wrists. I can't seem to pull my brain out of this fog of panic and the forest starts to spin around me. "Breathe, Kelsey. You're hyperventilating," he says. He sounds so calm, barely out of breath. I'm gulping down air and can't get enough. "If you don't relax, you're gonna pass out." His voice is matter-of-fact and it finally permeates - that's why the lightheadedness (hyperventilation = bad).
Also. A serial-killer probably wouldn't be trying to help me to not pass out, if I were next on his hit list.
I don't say anything for a moment. I'm starting to get a finger's edge on control and my breath is slowing down, but I'm blinking away tears. "I-I'm okay now."
"Okaay. You're not going to run off again, are you?" He leans down to look at me over my shoulder - a breath or two puffing against my cheek - and though he hasn't let go, his grip loosens. "Or you have a cottage in the woods, maybe?"
I flash a miserable smile for the effort to make this better. "No, no cottage." I tip my head towards where the road should be. "Uh. I may have panicked."
I can't see his eyes in the gloom, but I can hear them rolling in his reply. "No, really?" He exhales, heavy, saying, "Seriously, Kelsey, I was just giving you a ride. What did you think?"
I open my mouth, ready to protest and he says, "Don't answer that." Maybe he'd remembered that, yes, he had a gun that he didn't want to explain.
But at this moment he seems perfectly reasonable, not the serial-killer type (if there is a type). I'm pretty sure I've reached stratospheric levels of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," I say, feeling the flush creeping into my face. To keep myself sane, I tally my pre-panic things up – it was late at night, a creepy walk home, a scary conversation and - a guy I'd seen take out three men in a fight had a gun and didn't want to tell me why.
And then there was that other stuff, that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and what happened last year … but that wasn't what made me drop all rational thought and run. Not really. It was that other, other, stuff. You know, what I said. Now, though, it was difficult to believe how frightened I'd been, in the face of those concerned green eyes. I sigh. "Um. You can let me go now."
He nods and waits a beat, I guess gauging if I was telling the truth. Finally, he does. The air rushes in between us and I notice how warm my back isn't, now that he's let me go. I wonder if he can see how red I must be. I look up. He can't. It's way too dark. Also, he's not looking at me. I follow the glance he throws across the trees around us and realize that, one, it is really freakin' dark, even with moonlight dappling the ground around us, and two, I don't actually know which way to go to get back to the road.
My stomach drops. "Uhm, do you know how to get back?"
He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, runs a hand through his hair to scratch at the back of his neck.
"God, I'm sorry. This is my fault."
His mouth twists, "Yeah, but," and he huffs a chuckle, "I've been in worse situations – trust me." His words are only just fading in the air when the sound of a branch snapping reaches us. His eyes yank away from me and a moment later I see it too. The shadows around us are moving. We're no longer alone.
"Who … what is that?" My voice is a harsh whisper, and my heart (that had finally begun to slow down) ratchets up to rabbit speed again.
He sighs. "I just had to open my mouth, didn't I?" and then he mutters, "This is what I get for letting Sam stay at the motel." He grips my arm again and this time I don't shy away. I let him pull me closer - until my arm bumps up against his - the solid bulk of muscle reassuring, instead of frightening, now. "Who's there?" He asks. A rough sound answers, like vocal chords that have been torn and sewn back together wrong. Laughter? A chill runs through me.
"Dean, what ..?"
"Quiet," he says, harshly. "Let me listen." His head is tilted to one side and he doesn't look frightened, or even really worried – he does look tense, though. Alert.
More laughter, different from the first but just as ragged joins in. The hair on my arms stand up. What the hell laughs like that? They step out of the forest and I have my answer. My eyes sweep across the group once and then again, because I don't understand what I'm seeing. They're people, -ish … on two legs, with four limbs, but hairy all over, with glaring yellow eyes, pointed ears and long muzzles – that's the only word to name them – ending with mouths full of long sharp fangs. They look like, erm, werewolves. But that's impossible.
I must have said that out loud, because he says, "No, not werewolves," like he would know? "Too wolfy."He takes a sniff of the air and his nose crinkles. That's when I notice the smell, pungent and stinging my nose, like over-ripe, un-showered, or maybe dead, bodies. Like Mel (the town-drunk) after a binge, or college kids on spring break, when they don't have professors to impress. My stomach turns over and I'm thankful I haven't eaten for a while. Dean's eyebrows lift, eyes widening, like he can't believe it either. From his expression, he has eaten and regrets it. "No, they sure as hell aren't werewolves," he mutters and his gaze goes thoughtful, like he's scrolling through other possibilities. Which of course is insane, since werewolves aren't possible. But after a moment (while he still keeps wary eyes on the silent semi-circle of … things), he says, lowly, "They might be –"
He stops and I open my mouth to ask, "They might be what?" but his eyes widen and his mouth twists as the closest one launches itself at us.
He rolls his eyes and he's bracing for impact, the arm I'm leaning against going tight. He spits out, "Oh, come on," and there's so much exasperation in his voice and absolutely no fear, but my mind can't even process that little fact - because I'm screaming, jumping back, mindlessly expecting him to dodge too. He pulls his arm back and it takes a second before the lightbulb goes off … he's going for the gun. But the thing is frighteningly fast and there's no way he can get to the weapon in time. His other hand goes for its throat (he barely manages it), and he goes down under what's probably a couple hundred pounds of snarling teeth and muscle.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!" Looking for anything I can use as a weapon, there's nothing around but wispy twigs and dry leaves. Dean is on his back, laying on the gun and the 'too wolfy' thing is snarling and snapping at his face, drool dripping from its jaws and running down his forearm. His other arm is holding back a fur-covered, wickedly clawed hand, but the razor-tips of them are creeping closer and closer to his face, as he steadily loses against the greater leverage of the monster on top of him. (Monster. Yes, monster. That's what I said. Don't look at me that way.) And there's nothing I can do.
"Jasper!" I turn at the voice, "Cut it out, man. Get the hell off him," and there's a young man there. A naked young man. Not furry, not wolfy and not the least bit self-conscious. Standing calm as you please between two that are both furry and wolfy. And actually, I'm pretty sure there'd been seven of them a moment ago, but now there are six (including the snarling, drooling one) and naked-man.
The snarling one stops almost immediately when the words ring out in the night air. He pulls back, clambering off my former scary-ride-home and now protector. Jasper doesn't back down, so much as back off, teeth still bared and claws ready to get back into it, but Dean doesn't seem flustered at the situation at all. He just rolls to his feet when the other has given him enough room, as if being attacked in the forest by clawed and fanged man-wolves is absolutely normal. Grimacing, he shakes his arm to get rid of the drool. The stuff doesn't particularly want to let go and I see a second where he thinks about wiping his arm on his jeans, before reconsidering. One side of his lip turns up in disgust and he exhales in a huff. "So. What's the plan here, guys?"
He hasn't reached for his gun yet and I wonder about that for a moment, but naked-man looks around, like he expects us to not be alone … because otherwise, he doesn't understand Dean's nearly complete lack of concern. And, well, I know it's just me and Dean out here and I can't understand it either. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating again. "Hurry up," the naked not-wolf says, to the group in general, "We'd better get out of here."
The two nearest me move and then the rest of them, lurching forward in a rush. My breath stops. I can't really see the details of it – I see five of them go for Dean and hands are grabbing me from the side and behind. I scream his nameand he jerks around. For the first time, I see real fear on his face and know it's not for himself. He throws an elbow into the face of the wolf behind him, and my stomach lurches when I see blood bloom across his chest from a clawed hand, as he yanks out of another's hold. Oh god, they're going to kill him.
A flare of agony makes my vision go white. Pain announces itself from the back of my head … my vision pulses red around the edges, once, twice, before everything goes black.