A/N: Thank you so much to toridw317 and Guest for reviewing!
Song: Can't You Hear Me Knocking by The Rolling Stones
CHAPTER 6
Can't You Hear Me Knocking
It is humiliating not to have your prayers answered, Dean thinks. He doesn't know how everyone else does it.
Maybe he's spoiled, but when he calls Cas and that halo-totting bastard doesn't answer, he feels abstractly like a needy girlfriend. Dean has never been on the receiving end of this sort of treatment before, and he doesn't like it one bit. He knows he's busy in Heaven or whatever but sheesh, how many times does he have to try? It's an emergency!
Off to New Jersey it is, then. It's only around a three-hour trip.
When he tells Claire this she looks remarkably unsurprised and he briefly wonders if she's had a vision about it already. Turns out she had just overheard him taking to Bobby. She doesn't ask what Purgatory is.
He wants to apologize. He does, truly. She hasn't uttered more than an "okay" to him and he knows he's hurt her feelings. He just can't find the right way to say it. He's not good with this sort of stuff. She has such a way with words – literally – that he can't help but fear that anything he attempts to say will be underwhelming or fall flat.
Really, he's overthinking it. What she's probably mistaking as stubbornness is really just insecurity. Her reaction to him shouting at her reveals that she's a bit more sensitive than he'd thought, and he's afraid that she might misconstrue whatever he ends up saying.
So, he eventually opts for simplicity.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out abruptly and inelegantly, gaze fixed on the road and shoulders tense. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you the other day."
Several beats of silence pass as she lets the impact of the statement sink in. After a minute she replies, "It's alright. I know you're under a lot of stress."
"That's one way to put it," he scoffs. His smirk withers away when he glances over at her and sees she is watching him solemnly.
"You shouldn't beat yourself up about not finding him yet. You're doing everything you can, and I know you're frustrated, but don't take it out on me."
His jaw clenches and she recognizes this as a telltale sign that she's touched a nerve. Usually, in moments like this, he doesn't respond and tries to forget she said anything at all. But this time he says, "I know. I shouldn't have. It won't happen again."
He does know he's doing everything he can. Like always, though, it's just not good enough.
. . .
After arriving at the Knight's Inn motel, Dean and Claire spend the rest of the day shopping and creating fake IDs, which, given everything, probably makes it the most ordinary day they have spent together.
"You could have been a counterfeiter in another life," she tells him as they sit on one of the beds, photos and tools fanned out around them. She sits cross-legged against the headboard, while he's sitting upright on the edge.
"In another life, I wouldn't have had to counterfeit," he responds.
He hands her her shiny, new FBI badge. "Here, Agent Currie. You'll be cutest FBI agent there ever was," he drawls. The adjective he uses is complimentary, but somehow the statement as a whole doesn't end up sounding like a compliment.
Still, after hearing this she's sure her face is red and is determined not to make eye contact with him. Instead, she stares intently at the photo. He's right to point out that she doesn't really pull off the title, mostly due to her age and the fact that she actually looks even younger than she is. But she can't help but feel pleased. This – them here, in yet another dodgy motel room, poring over falsified documents – resembles something of a backwater initiation ceremony.
They then head over to a nearby department store, where Claire buys a cheap but professional-looking blouse, blazer, skirt, and shoes, before they get out of there as swiftly as possible.
It's around dinnertime when they're done, so they stop at a diner on the way back. Dean orders a cheeseburger. Claire orders a Caesar salad with fries on the side (which, by the way, he doesn't understand at all – don't they cancel each other out?). Even in such a short amount of time, they've stumbled into some semblance of a routine.
It was different with Sam. Of course, this goes without saying, but it is at times like this that it truly strikes him. With Sam, things just flowed. On hunts, they operated as one cohesive entity. There was always this sense that even if they decided to separate, they would find each other again, like magnets. They shared a purpose – whatever it may be – and were bonded to it, by it, in every way possible. Joined at the soul.
Claire is a stranger he's teamed up with for purposes, because she has hers and he has his and although they are related they are not the same, and this is brutally different. There is a barrier of uncertainty between them. Every action requires communication, every plan an explanation.
Right now, he feels like a veteran cop who has lost his lifelong partner and whose captain decided to replace him with a rookie. Obviously, Claire pales in comparison. Anyone would. And that's the trouble.
"Tomorrow we'll go to the morgue," Dean tells her. His tone is so casual that an innocent bystander might have thought he was mentioning the weather forecast.
"Okay."
"And when we find this thing…" he starts gravely, "You let me take care of it. Hell, I shouldn't even be taking you."
"I've come this far, haven't I?"
"Yeah, but until now we haven't seen any action." He seems almost disappointed by this, like he longs for it. Maybe he does. Maybe he feels like he's missing a part of himself when he's not hunting. It's been so many years.
What Sam had wanted for him was a dream. It was never a sustainable concept – never. He would grow restless and he would leave. He's not domesticated. How could he ever thrive in an environment built for a different species? He could try. He might have tried. But if the door to the cage were open, what would stop him from leaving? In the end, he knows he would disappoint more people, let them down just like he lets everyone down. That feral thing inside him would scratch at the wall, fight to get out, until he couldn't hold it back anymore. The hunting feeds the beast, but it also protects him and without it, he would be lost.
"I know how to use a gun," she says matter-of-factly, rousing him from these thoughts.
"You do?"
"Yeah. Like I said, my dad was ex-military and… so was my brother. He had a bunch of guns and used to take us on hunting trips as kids."
Dean's nondescript eyebrows lift in apparent surprise, but he doesn't say anything.
"I know I don't look like much, but my dad taught me a thing or two." In all honesty, these hunting trips were more for her brothers' sake than hers – he took her along mainly because she was the oldest and insisted on being included. Her interest in the sport had always been tepid at best. Once she started high school she stopped going with them altogether, instead favoring starkly different extracurriculars, like cheerleading. But still, she remembers how to shoot.
"That's good, I guess. But I hope you never have to prove it," he says, knowing she probably will.
. . .
The next morning, when Claire emerges from the bathroom, Dean eyes her scrupulously. After a moment of sincere contemplation, he instructs, "You should put your hair up."
She glances at herself in the mirror, before deciding he's probably right – it'll make her look a bit older. Who would have thought Dean Winchester had such an eye for detail? She pulls her long locks tightly into a ponytail.
"Better," he grunts.
There was no vision last night. Neither of them mentions it, but it's one of those things that hangs unsaid, and yet still pervasively in the room. She can tell Dean is curious, but is treading carefully in light of his recent outburst.
The visions come less when she is with him, she thinks. She knows Castiel said it should have no effect on them, but some nagging feeling inside the pit of her stomach is telling her he was wrong. This, if it's true, is better for her but worse for him. She's not going to bring it up.
Immediately upon entering the police department, Claire and Dean flash their badges at the officer working the front. He's not young (if his male-pattern baldness is any indication of age), but he doesn't quite look old enough to see through their bullshit.
"Agents Richards and Currie," Dean says. "FBI. We're here to look at the bodies that were found in the woods."
"The animal attacks? Why the hell's the Bureau interested in that?"
"This is a highly classified investigation, officer," he says with an air of utter confidence. His voice dips an octave, to a comically low pitch. "I suggest you let us do our jobs." To Claire, it's obvious that he's pulling this out of his ass, but the officer apparently believes him.
"Suit yourselves," he replies, shrugging. "But you'll see – people are callin' it the Jersey Devil, but there's nothing that coulda done that other than a bear or something."
He leads them down to the morgue and the coroner takes over. White lab coat and all, he pulls out the type of stainless steel drawer that Claire had always thought – hoped – she would only see on TV. The body is covered with a sheet. The white fabric indents over the area where the victim's abdomen is.
"This one was brought in just the other day," he says, nonchalantly taking a sip of the coffee. "The others are the same. We've got animal control out there looking for the thing as we speak. If you think a person coulda done this, then I definitely want the Bureau involved."
Dean pulls back the sheet with a fluidity that suggests he's done it many times.
Claire has to turn away and wage a war with her gag reflex. The sight is so gruesome the coroner does not even find this strange.
They instantly understand what the others had been talking about.
"I'll leave you to it," the coroner says, eying his coffee as if he's lost his appetite.
Dean's eyebrows knit into a scowl as he inspects the damage. The body belongs to a man of around thirty, and where there once was a stomach is now a bloody, cavernous mess. It's not bloody, bloody, in the sense of oozing blood, but bloody like a hunk of raw meat. And to Dean, who's seen some messed up shit before, it's apparent that things are missing. Not werewolf missing, but, well, bear missing.
He peers over at Claire, whose hand is clamped over her mouth and nose as she stares at the… carcass.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine," is her muffled reply. Even though the sound is obfuscated, he detects sarcasm.
"Something definitely made a meal outta this dude," he observes.
"You think it's the thing we're looking for?"
"It's got to be. These wounds were made with claws and teeth and whatever got 'im was hungry and not a bear."
"And now we go out looking for it in the woods?"
"Yep. Well, tonight anyway. Given when the bodies were found, this thing seems to be nocturnal."
"Peachy."
. . .
The nature reserve is especially chilly that night, even though it's summer. Outside the Impala, Dean suits up in his dad's beat-up leather jacket and packs a bag of miscellaneous tools, while Claire mentally prepares herself. Going out into the forest in the dead of night to hunt something that's already eviscerated a crapload of people was not something she was expecting to do on this journey.
There is something about the eerie stillness and scent of leaves that makes the woods at night feel like another dimension. Claire has always felt this way. Camping up north meant cold nights and clear stars, and a lot of time alone with her own thoughts. Now, the woods always make her think, and she suspects it is the same for other people. Dean gets this meditative-yet-melancholy look on his face when he thinks she can't see him.
Now is not a time for reflection. They march over trampled leaves, shotguns slung over their shoulders. Dean's hearing is tuned into every sound: the crunch of leaves, Claire's breathing, and everything else in between.
Two of the men killed were experienced hunters – that means this thing is fast. Dean wagers he's faster, but only if he keeps his wits about him.
The snap of twigs somewhere behind them causes him to spin around within a millisecond. His gun is lowered, so Claire follows his lead and does the same.
There's another rustle, this time from the treetops above. Dean redirects his aim. Again, she mimics him blindly.
"It's hunting us," he hisses to her. His eyes search the foliage, but it's too dark to see much and he doesn't have a free hand to use his flashlight.
There's a whooshing sound, and all of a sudden he feels something hot and moist by his ear. He barely has the time to get out a panicked "fuck" before he's being hoisted into the air by his ankle. Claire lets out a shriek. The thing responds with a shriek of its own, an abominable cross between something human and something animal.
He is vaguely aware that warm, fresh blood is sprouting from his ankle and trickling up his pant leg.
"Claire!" he yells. "Shoot!"
He figures there's a 50/50 chance she'll miss and shoot him instead, but hell, when are the odds ever in his favor? Plus, it's just his foot that's in the direct line of fire. He'd rather live without his foot than become this thing's midnight snack.
To his (and her) immense astonishment, she shoots it in the face.
He falls out of its grasp and onto the forest floor, hard on his back. The creature falls nearby, a mess of blood and slime and – are those scales? Wings? There's definitely a tail in there… He can't tell exactly what it looks like in this light and the fall made him dizzy, but whatever it is, it's something straight out of someone's worst nightmares. So, the usual.
He unsteadily climbs to his feet with a groan. Ripples of pain are resonating through his back and his ankle smarts badly. The wound is just a scratch, but it's likely sprained from supporting his entire weight. He'll be limping for a couple of days at least.
She runs over to him, eyes wide. "…Did I get it?"
He glances briefly at the lifeless heap not more than ten feet away from him. "You got 'im alright."
Her features morph into a shaky smile. She looks as though she's about to say something, but all of a sudden she's being snatched up by her ankle, too.
"Shit," he curses, diving for her fallen shotgun. He quickly rolls over on his abused back and aims for the head. He pulls the trigger without hesitation – you might have thought he was shooting a clay pigeon instead of some hellish, winged monster. The creature drops abruptly out of the sky, hitting a bunch of branches on its way down. Claire falls with it, incurring injuries similar to Dean's.
He hobbles over to her and helps her up. She looks a mess – her hair has become host to an array of twigs, her face is dirty, and she has a bleeding cut above her right eyebrow that will probably scar. He's sure he looks similar.
"Do you think there are more?" she immediately questions, looking around wildly.
"I don't think so. Body count hasn't been high enough," he says, but his body language remains tense and guarded.
"What now?" she asks after a moment.
"We gotta bury 'em. These bodies are gonna be hard for anyone to explain."
They grab a couple of shovels out of the bag Dean has brought with him, but Dean does the vast majority of the work. Once the monsters are good and buried under six feet of earth, they limp back to the Impala. He is at least fortunate that the bastard didn't get his driving foot.
Back at the motel, Dean immediately insists on patching Claire's ankle up, seemingly oblivious to his own injury.
"Patching up" consists of dumping some whiskey on the wound, slapping a bandage on it, and hoping for the best.
"You're lucky you don't need stitches, but this is gonna sting," he prefaces as she sits on the edge of the bathtub. He's kneeling next to her with his hodgepodge of makeshift medical supplies.
She bites her lip and nods him the go-ahead. She lets out a hiss of pain when he pours the stream of whiskey over the gouge, but it's over fast.
"All set," he tells her, washing off the excess blood and liquor. He's acutely aware of her eyes on him as he wraps her ankle, and she is acutely aware of his fingers brushing her bare skin. She can practically feel the pheromones wafting off of him despite this being a wholly unromantic sort of physical contact.
"Thanks," she says, standing with her good leg, eager to get away from him.
"No problem." He takes a swig from the bottle before rolling up the bottom of his jeans and giving his own ankle the same treatment.
Claire walks towards the mirror and inspects the damage to her face. The cut above her eyebrow has scabbed over, but due to the delicate nature of the skin in that area of her face, she worries it will leave a mark. She grazes her fingers over it, not really touching it.
She murmurs, mostly to herself, "Do you think this will scar?"
Little does she know, Dean had already clocked this injury and determined that it would likely leave a scar, albeit a faint one.
"Probably just a tiny one. It'll barely be noticeable."
She lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a tut, clearly disappointed with this answer. Maybe it's vain, but she worries that this facial scar is potentially just one of many that will mar her features if she continues down this road.
"Comes with the territory, sweetheart," he adds as though he can read her thoughts.
When they're both cleaned up, Claire takes a moment to survey their impact on the room. It's completely trashed. There are enough bloody towels piled up in the corner of the bathroom to implicate a homicide, and filthy tools and clothes are scattered everywhere.
"I don't think we're gonna get that incidentals deposit back," she observes wryly.
Dean smirks, but instead of responding says, "You did good back there." His tone is clipped, but she gets the sense that any praise at all from him is high praise.
"I think it was mostly luck."
He doesn't speak because he agrees, but they lock gazes, perhaps inadvertently, for what feels like an eternity. Everything Claire had been thinking about before rushes out of her head. If she wanted to reply, she's forgotten what she wanted to say, and she starts to feel the same uninvited, magnetic thing she felt in the bathroom.
Dean is the one who breaks eye contact. "I'm going out for a bit," he says.
"It's the middle of the night…"
"There's something I gotta do."
"Okay."
She doesn't ask where he's going because he's clearly not interested in offering an answer. She would normally assume a bar, but given his current state, she's not so sure.
Nevertheless, it would shock her to know he is headed to a church. Desperate times and all that…
It's a small, white church, nearly identical to thousands of others across the country. In the night's bluish hue, its looming, pointed steeple looks more sinister than holy. But this is not why Dean approaches it with hesitance.
He hadn't anticipated the church being locked – it didn't occur to him that not everything operates on the 24-hour schedule he has grown accustomed to.
It's not until he tries to open the doors and hears a lock rattling on the inside that he realizes his mistake. Suddenly and unexpectedly he is overwhelmed – it all hits him at once. His ankle is hurting like a bitch, his body is completely covered in bruises and scratches, and he still isn't any closer to finding Sam.
He falls to his knees, bracing himself against the large wooden doors, and looks at the dark, cloudy sky.
"Please, Cas," he whispers, voice breaking. "I know you're real busy, but I need your help. Sammy's in trouble and I – I, I'm tryin', but I can't… It's not enough. Please…"
Dean's prayer resounds through the empty churchyard, a murmur among the chirping of crickets.
The crickets are the only ones who answer.
A/N: Please let me know what you think :)