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Chapter 9 – Hellhounds Don't Bleed

Dean sat on the floor, drawing his knees into his chest. His legs were falling back into that dull twinge he got after running all day, the steady ache of over-worked muscles finally recovering from the day of activity. Dean mind was calm as he tried to settle the ache and ignore the pain. Running was so ingrained in his body now that it became a mindless exercise. He often drifted off within himself, hypnotized by the thoughtless repetition.

He rubbed his calves. Damn, he missed the Impala. It wasn't possible to keep her running. Gasoline became scarce and dangerous to burn. The plants had withered and the oxygen in the air was low.

Fucking Hell, he would travel with Castiel if he could, but, as if their survival wasn't hard enough, Lucifer could tell exactly when one of those bastards jumped from place to place. He could feel it somehow. Dean remembered the subtle echo running through him when Castiel transported him out of the monastery. He supposed the angels knew that too. That was why they kept getting caught before they decided not to help anymore.

Dean's mind wondered now that they had stopped for the night. Only a day ahead of them before he could sleep in his own bed. Castiel had been able to keep them alive if only just. The encampment was barely surviving and with the food supplies dwindling, their future looked dim. Dean was surprised that he had been able to keep such a large group alive, not to mention hidden.

He was on a mission. Mission Impossible. Damn Tom Cruise movies. Dean mentally smacked himself for referencing the horrible films. He shivered as he remembered the wretched acting and the comical attempt at action scenes. He missed bad movies, horrible day time television and even those stupid commercials for things he would never need.

Dean shook the memories from his mind. The mission, right. He was out to find more food and maybe the stray human that somehow survived the wasteland that followed Lucifer's blotting out the sun. People were counting on this mission's success. If he failed they would have to cut the rations and they were thin as it was. Dean glanced over at the small bags of preserves they happened to stumble upon. They had to venture farther and farther every time they need supplies.

It was often that food ran through his mind. He would daydream of eating an orange, fresh and ripe off a tree. His mouth watered when he imagined a hot burger and greasy, salty French fries. Dean couldn't stop the small whimper that escaped his lips when he imagined apple pie straight from the oven. He would gladly sacrifice himself to that scarecrow in Burkitsville, Indiana if it meant he could have apple pie one more time.

His thigh twitched angrily and threatened to lock up but his massaging fingers held the seizure at bay. They had run so much more today than they had in a long time. Castiel had sensed the demons getting closer. They altered the trail and Dean led them swiftly deeper into the wastelands. Their course was directly south now. He figured they were somewhere in what used to be Nebraska right now. Their camp was back in Kansas. Damn, why hadn't Sam found them yet?

Lucifer's attacks had been systematic and violent. Hundreds of demon's grabbed every available meat suit until young children were attacking and killing innocent people and towns crumbled under the devil's gaze. A few people had found Dean and the angels. They had carved a home into the hollow world of the apocalypse. Kansas was where it seemed to begin and Dean had a good feeling Kansas would be where it ended.

Their days were spent trying to survive. People had filtered in over the months when Dean could get them to his camp before Sam killed them. Lucifer. Lucifer killed them.

Dean had taken the last year to get used to people depending on him, asking for his opinion, wanting him to pass judgment. Castiel approved, said it was the duty of a savior to serve the people. Dean scowled and told everyone to shove off. He felt guilty for passing them off to Bobby but the old man didn't seem to mind much.

Dean always insisted that he was just like everyone else, and believed it himself for a while. He still felt the sensation racing under his skin. It was less noticeable when Dean was calm, but it was too much to ignore sometimes.

Dean shivered in the small run down house. His worn clothes held warmth considerably well but that also meant they held the sweat drying cold against his skin.

Another thing he missed dearly. Running water. Damn, he wanted a legitimate shower with water so hot it burned his skin bright red, and the sharp beat of water pounding over his head. It was his sanctuary, and Sam-not Sam-Lucifer managed to steal that away too. Once the power grids went down there was really no way to maintain any sort of civilization. Dean settled for warm baths and even those were rare.

His thoughts always started here, deep in longing and buried in memories. They always ended far from the remembered comforts and the desperate wants. They would always drift to the weight on his shoulders threatening to crush the life out of him. So many people depended on him, on his decisions, on his courage, on his success. Dean didn't want to picture their glowing faces as they glared in disappointment if he failed them. They had blamed him and some still hated him.

So many faces turned up to take him in, to watch him secretly and realize he was their savior, their only hope. Dean could see the realization cross their faces; their angered scowls became that sudden look of worship and clinging need. The awe never really wore off. No thanks to Castiel.

His thigh seemed happily numb but Dean's methodic rhythm didn't stop; he was too lost in his thoughts to remember what his hands were doing.

The needy faces became horror stuck masks of the countless bodies that haunted his memory. They were strewn beneath him on the battle field. He watched them die. Some had been possessed by demons while some had run alongside him into battle, when Dean was convinced they still had a chance. It didn't matter whether the person had been possessed or fought of his own free will; Dean respected him all the same. The only thing the angels had in common with the demons was that humans were caught in the bloody middle.

Dean licked his chapped lips as the memories hit him. He still couldn't stop the reaction he had. At least he didn't dream about them much anymore. Something about sleep deprivation and heavy physical activity made his brain shut off. He didn't dream much anymore and he was beginning to appreciate that fact... a lot.

It didn't stop his memories from floating up from the box he had sealed them in. He shuddered as another memory clawed its way from the depths of Dean's mind. The man had been old and the harsh conditions were wearing away at his bones. Dean had seen many people killed instantly and violently, his death was nothing like that. Those who died in battle glowed for a moment and their bodies collapsed, leaving a warm, tingling sensation rocketing through Dean's body. He could watch them fade into nothing, like they had nowhere to go. Sorry ladies and gentlemen Heaven and Hell are closed on account of the apocalypse.

The man shivered under warm blankets, heavy clothing and a roaring fire. He couldn't keep food down and his mind was slipping. Most people shook their heads with sympathy and patted his head in farewell. Dean remembered this because he was returning from battle, with half his men, several of them carrying each other, hobbling after him, when he met the old man.

Dean had a bullet wound in the shoulder, a knife wound across his back and a burn seared down his chest adding to the crisscrossing scars already there. His blood had created a breadcrumb-trail as it ran down his heavy shirt and drizzled to the ground behind him. He supported a man who had stopped moving two hours before they reached camp. Dean knew he was dead, could feel the void next to him and couldn't bring himself to drop the man's body along the way.

Bobby had rushed over and grabbed the man from Dean. He had felt for a heart beat as the man's wife knelt over him. She stepped in front of Dean and shouted curses at him for being the death of her loved one. He staggered around her protesting figure, barely standing from blood loss.

The old man's eyes caught his. He hadn't looked death in the eyes since he came face to face with the reapers. Even then he hadn't seen death, just the doorway. The intensity of the man's dark eyes contrasted his waning light. Dean nearly fell sideways; he was suddenly dizzy. Dean drifted forward and knelt next to the man. This death didn't set his skin a fire. This death didn't make heat run like tendrils of pleasure under his skin. No. This death left him fearfully cold.

Dean leaned forward to hear him whisper his thanks. He wanted to ask for what but his voice was lost. The man just nodded and told Dean to have faith. A frail hand reached out and rasped against Dean's cheek. God will win and you are the reason why. Death gripped him tight and pulled the life from his body. Dean felt the old man go as the life drained from his ancient body. The hand against his cheek became icy and slid across his skin. His death was like a black hole and Dean felt himself being pulled in as he stared deep into the lifeless eyes.

He felt himself fall over, the blood lose stealing his balance. Dean felt the cold hard ground beneath him and the fire at his back. He felt hands slide around him and turn him over. He felt the warm blaze of light and passed out.

Dean couldn't repress the shiver that shook his body; the pressure against his skin didn't like the memory either. He would never look death in the eyes again unless he absolutely had too. His hands had paused and he found he was staring off at nothing in particular. Castiel dropped a blanket that smelled of dust over his shoulders. Dean glanced up at this, finally aware of the hunters in the room.

"You should rest," Castiel suggested as the humans sat quietly around the room. They never really talked, even to each other. They spoke little to Castiel and used short statements when talking to Dean. The horror must be affecting them as it had changed everyone. Dean scowled and remained curled up. Castiel huffed and walked away. He sat opposite Dean and avoided all the hunters.

Dean could sleep like this; he shouldn't sleep like this, but he could all the same. His body relaxed instantly. Exhaustion was a luxury at this point; it made sure he didn't waste his time. He needed all the sleep he could get. Every inch of him was tired; sleep would come easy. He glanced around, trying to ignore the eyes on him. Castiel was the only one he looked at. The angel just watched him, sitting cross legged and silent. Dean looked away.

The dust smell coated his nose and mouth as he settled. He felt his breathing calm and his heart slow. Dean's mind faltered mid-thought. So many people had died… because of him.

"Dean," there was a whispered urgency in the voice. Castiel's hand was inches from Dean's shoulder. He flinched away from the touch as he woke. His body grumbled gently from the short sleep. It had been dreamless black bliss. Dean shifted as Castiel backed away. Judging by his loose muscles he couldn't have slept more than a few hours. "I can sense demons closing in. They have hellhounds and don't seem to be slowing down. I think they have your scent."

Dean was on his feet, the dusty blanket discarded. The worn bag of food was slung over Jo's shoulder. Dean thought it appropriate. She was the only hunter who could keep up with Dean.

He turned to the hunters to give an order but the words fell dead on his lips. They already knew what he was about to say and none of them really cared for his orders. He turned with his bag and strode out into the eternal night. Dean's mind reverted to pure instinct and the comfort of the gentle pull of muscles as he ran.

Hellhounds were horrible creatures. Dean preferred them when he couldn't see their shiny black eyes. They were dark splotches with awful jagged teeth. The scars across his forearm rippled in memory. The bite marks were darker than the rest of his skin. All his scars were dark memories.

He was out the door first with all the hunters following swiftly behind. A howl tore through the night air. He glanced toward the horrid call before bolting off into the dark.

Dean felt their presence behind him. His feet were sure and his legs drove him easily over the ground. The fluid motion of his body sent the light under his skin pulsing; drove it deeper, made it shine a little brighter. He felt the rhythm increase speed as his muscles pushed harder. Dean led the hunters along the cold hard ground toward their camp just a day's run south.

Another hound cried in the distance. They were close. If Dean listened hard enough he could hear the dogs circling the house, whimpering as they sought the fresh trail. They would never outpace the hounds.

Dean stopped. His graceful strides just ended as he spun around. There was a thrashing of claws on the ground. The hunters skidded to a stop around him, creating a halo heavy breathing. "Ellen, Jo, Sophia. Go back to camp and make sure none of these demons get by."

Ellen and Sopia nodded and took off. "Don't get yourself killed," Jo warned with an affectionate look, before following her mother.

The rest faced north. Dean could hear the quick pad of paws across the ground. Swift and silent, the hounds slinked through the forest surrounding them. The dead trees huddled around, providing little protection. One hellhound growled in the night. It had caught sight of them.

Heavy boots followed. Dean flipped the knife out of his sleeve and grabbed the colt strapped to his thigh. The hunters pulled blades from wherever they hid them. A few were armed with guns and holy water.

The hilt of Ruby's knife was cold against his skin. His breath was clouding before him. The first hound was bounding ahead of the demons. Dean raised the colt and tracked the black blur. He fired a single shot.

The hound cried out in a flash of light. The bullet smoked from the center of the hound's forehead. Dean watched it dissolve into black smoke. The others were staring again.

With the colt tucked back in the strap at his thigh Dean pulled another knife. The giant curved blade sheathed at the small of his back. The second hound pursued, undeterred. It would be on them in seconds and the hunters couldn't see it. "Approaching from the right in five, four, three…" They turned to guard against the beast but Dean was already in motion.

He sprinted toward the snarling dog, careful to keep both blades away from his body. The flash of his own hands glowed at the edge of his vision. He knew the hunters could still see him; he wasn't far enough away that the dark hid him completely.

Dean leapt at the hound just as it dove at him. The curved blade arced across the hellhound's exposed chest, driving its jaws away from his face.

Dean spun a sharp kick to its face, sending the dog into a dead tree. It rose and bared its jagged teeth. It was jumping at him after two bounds. Its snarling jaws snapped inches from his face, light ricocheting around its frame. The pressure caressed every inch of his skin as the hound jerked against his blade.

He waited as the hound collapsed and the silvery knife was all that remained. "Take care of the fucking demons," he shouted at the others. The three demons ran directly into them, throwing one hunter back as guns shot and knives stabbed at the demon flesh.

The last of the hounds ran at him from behind. Bobby jumped in the way as Dean spun. The dog struck the man's face with razor claws, tearing at his eyes. Dean hooked the curved blade through the creature's jaw bone. He pulled sideways, avoiding the thing's vicious bite and yanked the creature away from Bobby. He took claws to the chest, for his efforts. The black nails were serrated and clung to his skin. Dean grunted and buried the remaining knife in its side repeatedly. The claws dissolved.

Panting, Dean pulled back the thick jacket. The claws barely struck his skin. "Dean?" Castiel was there in an instant.

"Shut up," Dean muttered and closed the jacket.

"Are you…"

"No." Dean slid both knives back in their sheaths. Best thing about killing hellhounds, they didn't bleed all over his knives. He ran to Bobby. The man was getting up by blindly using a tree to support himself. "Hey Bobby slow down." Dean looked at the man's face and cringed.

"Don't give me that look boy. I'm tougher than this. Start running I'll keep up." Bobby started to walk without the support of the tree.

"Bobby-"

"Dean. I can take care of myself. Get moving." The man pushed Dean away from him. "Start running all of ya."

Dean nodded and took off. Bobby struggled behind but he knew the way back and Dean and the others couldn't wait for him.