NINE
Agent Swift drew her weapon from the holster under her left arm and checked the magazine was full. She looked out of the front window, her face changing to one of disgust as she found several local police cars in the entrance to the motel car park.
"Damn amateurs," she grunted, waiting for Grover to drive up behind them and stop the SUV. She stowed her gun before opening the door and jumping out quickly. Grover got out of the car swiftly, following her as she walked over to the first car. "Where's Officer Mason?" she demanded, pulling her badge and flashing it at the policeman.
"Over there, ma'am," he said smartly, pointing to the car in front of them. She walked off toward it.
"Office Mason," she called, and the tall, weedy man turned quickly to look at her.
"Agent Swift?" he asked. "Oh, er… I was just trying to get him to come quietly."
She opened her mouth to answer. But there was the earth-shattering roar of the angriest creature on Earth and the sound of a gun firing.
Mason, Swift and Grover exchanged incredulous glances.
"What the hell was that?" Grover asked flatly. Mason turned to look at Sam.
He was staring at the motel, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyebrows going through tortuous flipping routines in anxiety.
"Well son?" Mason demanded. "What was that?"
All three officers of the law looked at him.
"Very, very pissed," he breathed.
The shot spewed salt across the entire room. The bellowing wall of fur hesitated. Then its eyes fixed on the holder of the large gun. It sprang the length of the room.
Dean lifted the shotgun to his right, swinging it round. He slammed it into the head.
"Rosie! Bathroom!" he shouted.
He didn't have time to look or check. The beast shook off the crack to the head and whirled on the human. Two flailing paws caught him in the head and chest. Dean was flung off his feet and hit the wall above the TV. He crashed down to the floor, taking the table and TV with him.
Rosalea screamed. Even as he shook a very muggy head, Dean realised she was not in the bathroom.
He heard two shots fired and made his protesting neck look up.
The beast appeared to be reeling. It slapped paws to its chest as it roared and turned away from Dean. He crawled to his hands and knees. There was another shot, then another. Dean grabbed the fallen shotgun and used it to help him get to his feet.
The creature screamed in agony, turning on Dean. He lifted the shotgun, then remembered it was empty. The beast reached for him.
Rosalea fired the Glock again twice.
The first shot of salt went into the creature, its claws raking across Dean's t-shirt as it failed to get a grip on it. The second shot penetrated the dark haze of vanishing spirit and slammed into his front.
Dean stumbled back with the impact and bounced into the wall heavily. His head cracked into the wall and he tumbled to the floor, out cold.
Rosalea stared, frozen. She blinked, let her gun hand drop, and ran over to the fallen Dean. She let the gun tumble to the floor by his head and reached out, slapping at his face.
"Dean! Dean! Wake up, come on!" she called, then slapped him again for good measure.
"Barbecue sauce!" he gasped suddenly, surprising her. She paused, then pushed at his jacket, rolling him onto his back.
"You alright?" she asked quickly, watching him look round and get his bearings.
"Yeah… I think," he said, then his face screwed up. "Awww! What the hell!" he growled in pain. "You shot me!" he protested suddenly, lifting his head and trying to look at his front. "I told you not to shoot me!"
"I shot the thing, but it disappeared," she pointed out, putting her hands to his jacket and helping him up. "Where did it go?"
"How should I know?" he rumbled painfully, clutching at her shoulder and slapping a hand against the wall to stop him falling over again. "It shouldn't be here anyway!"
"That's what I thought," she complained. "You said the stuffed one was the reason it was here. So if it's not, what is?"
He gestured to the shotgun on the floor, apparently not trusting himself to speak in front of a lady while he was in pain. She waited a moment for him to let go of her shoulder before she stooped to get the gun. He leaned back against the wall, opening his jacket and looking at the blood seeping from his t-shirt. He hissed in agony but she ignored him, her shaking hands struggling to open the shotgun.
"What are you doing?" he managed, wincing.
"Re-loading it. That thing could be on its way back."
He looked at her for a long moment, then took the shotgun from her and snapped it open. He put his hand out and she patted her pockets then looked round the room quickly. She found the fallen box of shells and raced over, picking it up and bringing it back. She handed shells over and he re-loaded it quickly and efficiently, snapping it shut with the ease of the practised, she noticed.
"First things first," he wheezed, trying to pretend nothing hurt. "Check the burnt toy."
She nodded and went into the bathroom, leaving him to lean over and put his hands on his knees, hissing and muttering.
She came back. "It's all ash, all of it," she said, confused. "So it's not the armadillo?"
"Well what the hell else could it be?" he growled, pushing himself up and round to the bathroom. He grasped the side of the tub and looked over. He put the shotgun on the sink and put his hand into the bath, shoving his fingers into the warm ash and scattering it about.
His fingertips connected with something and he moved it back to find a small, hard object in amongst the ash.
Rosalea appeared next to him. "Have you found something?"
"Something," he managed, trying to close his fingers round it.
"Dean Winchester! Rosalea Crow! Come out of there!" shouted a very close voice.
"Son of a–" Dean began.
Rosalea picked up the shotgun and took the Glock from the back of her trousers, going to the window and dropping them both out quickly. She closed it quietly and looked back at him. He nodded then gestured to the door with his head.
She walked out slowly, looking round the doorjamb to see four policemen pointing guns through what was once the door to the room, more nervous than a small nun at a penguin shoot.
She raised her hands with a small smile, as Dean came out of the bathroom behind her.
"Woah, the Wild Bunch," he quipped, as Captain Mason and a woman pushed their way through.
"Dean Winchester," she said firmly, putting a hand into her suit jacket and pulling out her ID. "I'm Agent Rebecca swift with the FBI. You're coming with me."
Rosalea just gaped, first at her, then at Dean. "The FBI? For two boys and an armadillo?"
Sam looked at his wrist handcuffed to the inside of the police car and huffed. Agent Grover turned round in the seat in front and looked at him.
"Not as soft as those local boys, are we Mister Winchester?" he smiled. "And don't think about pulling the 'I have to escape my evil brother's clutches' routine. We really, really don't care."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically. Grover smiled and turned back to look out the front windscreen. "Must be hard for you, though," Sam added sympathetically. Grover refused to turn around.
"Why?" he asked impatiently.
"Well, being named after a Muppet," Sam said helpfully. "And the blue one, too. Still, at least you're one of the cool ones. It could be worse, you could be Ker-"
"Samuel Winchester, shut up," Grover said tersely. Sam closed his mouth, his mammoth smug grin on the inside bleeding out slightly to produce a tiny, shiny smile of amusement on the outside.
It was silent for a long moment. Sam looked at the back of his head speculatively.
"Hey… Did you know you had a bald patch?" he asked innocently.
"I'm ignoring you and your pathetic attempts to distract me," Grover sighed.
"Ah. That must be how you do it," Sam shrugged.
"Do what?" the FBI agent asked, flicking his gaze up to the rear-view mirror and pinning Sam with a distinctly unimpressed look.
"Live with a bald patch," Sam said brightly, manipulating his wrist to bring it closer to his other one slowly.
Grover sighed and looked back out of the front window.
Agent Swift pushed a handcuffed Dean into the back of the SUV roughly. His foot caught the slight side plate to the step and he landed heavily on the back seat, hissing in pain.
"Hey, mind the merchandise, lady," he snapped. "Some of us just got shot." He shifted in the seat to make himself more comfortable.
"Mr Winchester, I couldn't be happier about your accomplice shooting you. I'm just disappointed it was only salt," she said seriously. He watched her slam the door and climb in the front seat. "And no, we're not keeping you with your brother. We're not complete idiots," she snapped.
"Well dayum," he stressed in his best approximation of a Texan, "and us poor hicks thought you'd up and let us go. Shoot."
She looked at him in the rear view mirror, then back at the radio unit. She reached forward and picked it up, clicking it on.
"Grover? This is Swift. I have Dean Winchester with me. Let's go," she barked. There was a crackle and a reply, and Dean looked around the inside of the vehicle slowly. She put the radio back and turned round in the seat to look at him again. "You won't find any paper clips, if that's what you're looking for," she smiled.
"Actually I was looking for some Coproximol," he sniffed. "And I am bleeding here."
"Oh well, never mind," she said brightly, turning back round in the seat and reaching for the keys.
Dean let his gaze run over the back of her head.
"Didn't know you were a Rosicrucian," he said suddenly. She froze and looked round at him.
"What?" she asked quickly.
"Didn't think there were many left in the States," he added politely.
"How did you–"
"Nice hair clip," he said pointedly. "Tell me, do you have to be associated with Freemasons to work your way up the FBI now?"
"Shut up," she snapped, turning back to start the vehicle. "I'm not talking to you for the entire journey."
"My day gets better and better," he muttered to himself.
She looked to her right, through the window, and he sprang up quickly. He pushed one arm round and over, clamping it back into her throat.
She struggled and grabbed at his arm, but a bucket would have had more chance of bailing out the Titanic than she had against his strength.
"Don't panic lady, I'm the not murderer you people think I am," he wheezed. She fought for breath but she was already slipping into unconsciousness.
He waited until he was sure she was out cold, then he turned to the front passenger seat and looked for keys to his handcuffs.