TEN
Sam stole across to the police car quickly. He kept low, sliding along the driver's door. He wanged it open with a jolt, lunging at the officer within. Two lightning fast blows to his chin had him out cold across the front seats.
"Sam!" Rosalea gasped from the rear seat. "Am I glad to see you!"
Sam didn't pause. He rifled through the officer's uniform shirt pocket and snatched the small ring of keys, turning to the back seat.
"Hey Rosie," he said swiftly. "We need to go."
"I'm with you there," she breathed. "Where's Dean?"
"He'll probably be along any moment," Sam allowed, snaking out of the car and to the back door. He flung it open quickly and went to the handcuffs holding her to the cage behind the driver's seat.
"Good. What about the FBI?" she asked as her wrists were freed.
"They came in a pair. I've done my part, I'm sure Dean's taking care of his side of things," he said curtly. She rubbed her wrists and he grabbed her arm, pulling on her to get out. She shifted out as fast as she could, shutting the door behind her quickly. She looked up at Sam.
"And then?" she asked urgently.
Sam was looking around, checking the one other patrol car and the two FBI SUVs. He lifted a hand abruptly and waved as she grabbed his other arm.
"Sam!" Dean called, hurrying over the grass to them. Rosalea pulled at Sam more insistently and he looked at her.
"What?" he asked. She pointed.
"Don't – move!" Officer Mason called out harshly. Sam and Rosalea turned to see him pointing his gun at them angrily.
Dean came into view ten feet to their right and Mason swung his weapon round quickly. Dean stopped dead with a tiny skid, putting his hands up in surrender.
"Woah, man, don't do anything you'll regret here," he said quickly.
"Shut up!" Mason snarled. He swung the gun back toward Sam and Rosalea, then back at Dean quickly, unsure of where to point. He kept his aim moving between them sharply and the two Winchester brothers exchanged an anxious glance. "None of you are leaving here! You hear me!"
"Officer Mason–" Sam began.
Mason fired and Sam went over backwards as if yanked from behind.
"Saaauum!" Dean roared.
Mason turned in time to see the unmitigated wrath of Dean Winchester cross the distance between them uncomfortably fast. Dean grabbed his wrist and yanked his aim to the left. He twisted and Mason's wrist made a sickening clicking noise. The gun tumbled from his grip as he cried out in agony.
"Dean!" Sam breathed painfully from the grass. Rosalea had dropped to her knees and was trying to get him up.
Dean didn't hear. White, seething fury flooded through him more strongly than he'd ever felt. Dean let go of the man's wrist and grabbed his uniform shirt with his right hand. He wrenched and drove his head into Mason's with as much weight as he had.
Mason was pushed to the grass with a painful grunt. Dean was on him in a second, fists lashing, growled invectives struggling to be heard over the sounds of flesh connecting with bones.
"Dean!" Rosalea shouted desperately.
Perhaps it was the weariness of the pain in his own frame – the same physical pain he felt after every Hunt scratched, pummelled or bent him out of shape. Perhaps it was the refusal to accept a real, live person inflicting wounds where they had no right, considering they shared a species. Perhaps it was the abject fear and shattering numbness of knowing that he had failed his kid brother again, and again he had been hurt. Perhaps it was simply the frustration at knowing he was destined to go places he truly, truly did not deserve to go.
Whichever feeling it was, it shot through the elder Winchester with such strength he could taste it. It made it impossible for him to stop beating at the man underneath him. Blinded to the sights of the bloody mess beneath him, deafened by his own demons, he was shocked to feel hands grab at his left wrist.
He pulled and it came free much too easily. He turned, ready to fling Sam across the grass for daring to get in between him and his task at hand.
But long auburn hair swung across his vision, the smaller, bonier hands grasped at his wrist again, and brown eyes stared back at him in fear and desperation.
"Dean!" Rosalea said quickly. "Sam's on his feet. Leave him. We have to go – now!"
He stared at her for a long second, feeling the real world and its problems seep back into his tiny bubble of hate and revenge. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. She pulled on his wrist.
"Come on," she hissed.
He watched her let go and turn back to Sam, inserting herself under his left arm and grabbing him tightly, walking him away as fast as she dared.
Dean turned and looked down at Mason under him. Bloodied, bruised and definitely out for the immediate future, Mason was no longer a problem. Dean looked down at his own hands and the blood on them.
He got up quickly, turning and following Sam and Rosalea to the Impala, still parked round the side of the motel. He pulled the keys from his pocket, tossing them at Rosalea.
She caught them but just looked at him.
"I need something from room eight," he called. "Get Sam in the car, turn her round." He spun on his heel and ran for the window of room eight.
Rosalea leaned Sam against the car, huffing and cursing, wincing as he clutched at his upper arm in agony. She unlocked the car and pulled the door open quickly, turning to him and helping him in. He was safely ensconced in the back seat, comfortable but nevertheless hissing in pain, as she climbed in the driver's door and slammed the keys into the ignition. She gunned the engine and slid it into Reverse, pulling round cautiously.
Another moment and Dean was hurling himself out of the window and running for the passenger door. Rosalea leaned over and pushed it open hurriedly and he jumped in.
"Go!" he snapped.
The Impala, uncomfortable with hands on the wheel that were not Dean's, fought the almost overwhelming urge to hesitate. She instantly realised she was fully prepared to make do while her two normal charges were in danger, and she roared into life. She carried them out of the car park and put her best effort into beating her record drag time down the open road.
The Impala pulled up at the side of the road, its throaty ticking-over reassuring everybody concerned that they had a chance at out-running any and all authorities after them.
Dean leaned back over the front seat, putting his hand out to Sam's wrist and pulling it toward him. Sam hissed and bit his tongue as Dean inspected the bullet wound to his upper arm carefully.
"It's gone right through," he observed with a snap to his voice no-one cared for. "Not too bad though. We need to stop and get it cleaned."
"Both you boys need patching up," Rosalea put in, turning in the seat. "Where do we go?"
"Sam's still bleeding," Dean said, letting go of his brother's wrist and looking at Rosalea. "Swap. You get back there and stop it. I'll drive."
"But–" she began. He simply jerked a thumb at the rear seat and she let her protest die on her lips. Instead she pushed him back deliberately, crawling over the seats and landing next to Sam on the rear one. "Have you got a kit?" she asked him, as Dean shifted over to the driver's side.
He slid the Impala into gear and gripped the steering wheel. She spun delightedly in the gravel, overwhelmed to have him back in the driver's seat. The tyres found purchase in the loose shingle and she all but jumped from the side of the road, swerving back onto the tarmac and letting Dean guide her where he would.
Rosalea grabbed at the duffle in the footwell behind the passenger seat, rifling through to see if it held anything useful. With Sam's help she managed to disinfect, cover and bandage the wound as they shot down the black highway.
"Sammy?" Dean grumped angrily.
"Yeah, I'm good," he managed, still sounding pained. Rosalea sat round, going through the duffle again for anything resembling painkillers.
"Good. This ain't over yet. We still gotta stop that goddamn armadillo," Dean said, flicking his gaze to the rear view mirror. Rosalea paused and looked at him, catching the full force of his serious face.
"What?" she demanded. "I thought we burned the thing keeping it here, you said."
"Yeah, and then it tried to kill us," he pointed out, although Sam noticed the anger had mostly drained from his tone. "I think I know why."
"What is it?" Sam asked quickly, watching Rosalea pull out a plastic blister pack of painkillers. She popped two out and passed them to him to look for water.
"Guess what was left behind when we burnt the stuffed one," Dean said.
"Really dude, I'm not in the mood to guess," Sam protested.
"Half the blade someone killed it with," Dean supplied.
"You are jokin' me," Sam stated flatly.
"I wish. Poor bastard had a violent death alright. Someone stabbed it in the back and snapped a good two inches of tip off. I'm willing to bet that's why it's pissed off," Dean added.
"And then some!" Rosalea interrupted. "If someone stabbed me in the back I'd be sure to find him and kill him!"
Sam just looked at her, then up at the rear view mirror. Dean held out for as long as he could, but in the end he couldn't not look up at his younger brother in the glass. They exchanged an uneasy glance as Rosalea found the water and unscrewed the lid for Sam.
He took the tablets quickly and the Impala was filled with an uneasy silence.
"So where are we headed?" Rosalea asked.
"Out of the state," Dean replied. "All we have to do is reach–"
There was an almighty thump on the roof. The Impala fish-tailed dangerously wide and only Dean's skill prevented them from skidding straight off the road and flipping roof-first into the ditch.
"What the hell!" Sam shouted, bracing himself against the door. Rosalea grabbed onto the front seat.
Something heaved and lurched at the roof directly above Sam's head. Again the car twitched dangerously.
"Oh yeah?" Dean shouted in rage, apparently directed at the roof. His foot rose off the accelerator as he shifted in the seat. "Then bite this, you short-sighted bastard! – Hold on!"
Sam grabbed the door and Rosalea's arm. Dean gripped the wheel and twitched it to the right and back. The back-end of the Impala stepped out and he hauled the wheel hard to the left.
Tyres squealed in agony. Suspension struts protested. Hydraulic springs screamed bloody murder. The car spun ninety degrees left on a sixpence. There was a heart-stopping nano-second: the entire Chevy bounced up along one side, screeching to a stop. Just as Sam was sure it was about to pitch right over onto its roof Dean's boot crushed the accelerator. She faithfully leapt forward and he slid her back round to the sound of squealing tyres.
He lifted his foot and slammed it down on the brake as he whipped at the wheel. The Impala slewed through one hundred and eighty degrees.
She came to a definite stop – half of her screaming for mercy, the other half begging to try it again.
Rosalea opened her eyes to find herself clinging to Sam on the back seat. He was hanging onto the hand rail above his head and the seat desperately. They both turned and looked at Dean.
He snatched up something from the passenger seat and was out of the driver's door before Sam could draw breath.
Rosalea pushed herself off him and looked through the front windscreen. She gasped.
"It's back!" she cried. "Look!"
Sam shifted and grabbed at his duffle, trying to open the door too. Rosalea's eyes grew round as she realised Dean was on the road, a handgun behind his back and a small, shiny object in his right hand. Her gaze ran up to the huge beast in the middle of the dark road, brandishing claws and roaring in anger.
She looked at Sam quickly. He met her gaze fearlessly, then pushed open his door, springing out into the night.
"Wait! You're injured!" she pointed out, but he closed the door in her face urgently.
"Wait here Rosie! We'll deal with this," he said confidently, hearing Dean shout something even as the beast roared at him again.
"What? No! You'll both be killed!" she cried fearfully.
Sam smiled grimly, lifting the shotgun in his hands and pumping two salt pellets into the chambers.
"We've been dead before." He took a deep breath. "Stay. Here."