A/N: I'm not dead yet. Just had to get through some health stuff. But I'm back baby and writing (a little bit) pretty much every day. The intent is to stop being so slow. So, here is a chapter that was actually a lot longer but not finished and in the interest of not waiting any longer to update, I rearranged some of it to go into the next chapter. Hopefully it won't screw up the timeline. Please someone tell me if it does. So, without further ado: Dean's fun night at Lizzie's. (Ha! You know I'm lying, right?)

Chapter 7

Blood sprayed with every slash, until the ceiling above him dripped with the viscous fluid. It fell on his head and face in a scalding rain. He turned his face up to it open mouthed. The drops tasted like power, and pain, and redemption, and he couldn't get enough. All around him screams rose in pitch and agony, but the object of his cruelty made only a weak gasping sound as he plunged his dull blade into its flesh once again. He'd already flayed wide its throat and torn open its larynx and the pitiful wheezes emitted from that shuddering lump of gristle and meat only made him laugh. He plunged the blade again and the laughter spewed out of him like the blood that gushed in the wake of his knife.

Dean woke abruptly, the nightmare memory lingering behind his eyes like the morning after ache of too much tequila. The heat and reddish glow from the stove nearby echoed the hellish glow in his memory, oddly illuminating the room and creating bottomless shadows which added to his disturbed state. One handed he rubbed his face, wiping away sweat and the cobwebs of sleep. In the pit he'd suffered a death of a thousand cuts a thousand times and more. But now, there was no hope of his soul coming back whole; this time he knew the memories would cut him and cut him until his soul was shredded. Until the pieces slithered apart and rotted to nothing and he prayed that then he'd have the warm darkness of oblivion to look forward to. His breath shuddered and he concentrated on calming it, in and out, it's not real, he told himself.

He twisted over on the couch but before he could sit up he saw a shadow on the other side of the room. He stayed still as the shadow moved toward him, waiting to see what it resolved into. It was Lizzie, and he realized she was holding her shotgun. He closed his eyes for a moment resigned to the blast and the pain and the release that never came.

He felt a cool hand lightly cover his mouth and he pushed it away staring up at Lizzie in the glow of the stove. She removed her hand then put a finger to her lips and started moving toward the door. He sat up, grabbing her free wrist as he did; catching her eye and pointing to the shotgun she held. Lizzie shook her head and pulled away, reaching the front door in a couple of steps and peering out a peep hole.

He turned to the window over his head and searched for a crack between the curtain panels, trying to see outside, and waited to see what Lizzie would do. Then he heard it, softly, but still distinct among the night's other low sounds: growling. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing his heart to continue beating at its normal pace. Then looked over at Lizzie who was now turned to him, her face a pale smear in the shadows near the door. He slowly stood, facing her, and pointed to the door.

She shook her head, "just coyotes," she whispered.

Dean hesitated for a moment, gut tightening around a newly formed pit. He didn't have to see what was outside to know it wasn't coyotes; those growls were too familiar. For better or worse, he made a quick decision and plunged ahead, "I'm pretty sure they're not coyotes," he whispered back.

She gave him a strange look, head cocking slightly. As Dean stepped past her, intending to open the door, he felt for the jack knife in his back pocket. He was tired and suddenly pissed and ready to finish this, even if it meant only one tiny pig-sticker stood between him and the outsized fangs he remembered too well.

Just then there was a thump and a deep clang that sounded from the rear of the house.

"Shit!" Lizzie hissed and swiftly opened the door. They hurried out onto the porch, Dean hot on Lizzie's heels. Both of them scanned the area and Dean caught a dark shape moving furtively around the side of the house. Lizzie must have seen it too because she went to the end of the porch and tried to peer around the side of the house. Suddenly she was pulling herself over the railing, jumping to the ground, "Shit! Hey! Get away from there!"

Dean was still limping down the steps to follow her when he heard the shotgun blast. Once. Twice. He waited for a third that didn't come. Lizzie came barreling around the corner of the house and slammed into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He tried to catch himself, but his left leg wasn't paying full attention to the messages he was currently sending it. Lizzie caught him, fluidly pulling his arm over her shoulder and hurrying him back up the steps to the door.

"What the hell?" He demanded, half trying to push her away and walk on his own, but still grateful for her help anyway since the pain pill had long worn off. "What was it?"

"Someone messing with the generator and battery locker. Get back in the house and get off that leg." She gave him a push toward the door and quickly disappeared around the side of the house again.

He stood near the door, watching the area around the house for movement in the dark as far as he could see in the wakening dawn. He wasn't going to ride the pine on this one; no, whether she wanted it or not, she was getting some backup. He rushed back out into the dark and turned toward the opposite corner of the house. Maybe they could catch the intruder between them.

He slowed as he moved around the corner, but no sooner had he made it around when a blur swooped from above and then a second and a third until several large birds were swooping around him, screeching loudly and beating him with their wings. "What the – sonuvabitch!"

He threw punches, slashed with his knife. Sharp claws dug into his shoulder, and another set slashed at his face. He grabbed, catching a handful of feathers, then jerked down, slamming the creature into the wall of the house. It gave a strange screech upon impact and they all started to screech louder.

Their fellow's distress enraged the attackers and they pummeled him more vehemently. He ducked trying to get away from the blows but only managed to throw himself off balance. His left leg gave suddenly and he fell into the side of the house, striking his shoulder, hard. His breath flew out with a loud grunt, and he nearly fell to his knees, but managed to catch himself and took off for the back of the house. He'd only managed a few steps when there was a final blast from the shotgun. As one, his attackers broke off and with loud cries flew into the dark.

"What are you doing out here? I told you to go inside!" He almost knocked Lizzie down as she came around the house. Without pause she grabbed his arm and twisted him to go back toward the front of the house.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied as she drew his arm across her shoulders again, taking a good portion of his weight and moving him back around the house toward the door.

"I told you to stay inside and off that leg. Can't you follow directions?"

"It's been said," he grunted and took on more of his weight.

"That gash is pretty close to the tendon, you tore it up good walking on it and you could fuck it up even worse if you don't stay off it. So take it easy, tough guy." Her tone brooked no disagreement.

Dean swallowed a sigh and got to the point just as they reached the porch, "What did you see back there?"

Lizzie didn't answer immediately, preoccupied with maneuvering them inside, switching on a light and leaning her shotgun against some shelves near the door. She shoved Dean toward the couch, "And if you rip out my perfect stitching..."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled thinking it was a good thing she hadn't seen certain stitch jobs he'd had in the past. "What did you see?"

"Wait." she held up a hand palm forward. "I need to check on grandma. No way she slept through this." She started for the hallway, then turned back. "Sit. Don't move, I'll check your dressing when I'm done in here." She paused for a moment giving him an odd look. "And then you're going to tell me what happened to your face."

Dean nodded tersely and lowered himself to the couch, but she'd already turned away and disappeared. He was getting riled at her constant commands. Like he was a snot nosed kid, or a dog. Fuck it. The sun was coming up and if he couldn't get a ride he'd walk out to the damn highway. He was so done with this hunt. With everything right now, really. Dick angels and demon bitches and secretive little brothers and bossy army chicks. He just wanted a couple of shots of tequila, a long drive in his baby, and a good night's dreamless sleep.

"She's okay, thank god." Lizzie hurried back in making a beeline for Dean, camo pack in hand.

"Hey," he put a hand up, only then realizing it was still full of feathers. He patted at the air with the other hand, "I'm fine."

Lizzie stopped short, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Then her gaze dropped to the floor and her cheeks darkened. "I'm doing it again," she whispered. Then louder, "I'm sorry."

Before dropping the pack near her chair she pulled out a pack of gauze squares and offered them to him to wipe the blood from his face. She went to grab her shotgun and a box of shells from a shelf near the door then sat opposite him reloading it. She sighed heavily, not raising her eyes from her task. "Where'd you find the feathers?"

"Damn birds attacked me." He leaned forward, dabbing at his cheek and forehead where the claw marks oozed. But he was also watching her intently. "Lizzie, what did you see out there?"

"Couldn't see much. Someone trying to get into the battery locker. He was trying to break the padlock with a rock or something. Scared him off with a shot over his head. He headed toward a slot canyon that's back there. The other end goes pretty near the old Brinkerhoff place. Not worth following there in the dark. Pretty sure I know who it was anyway." She looked up at him from under her brows. "Birds attacked you?"

"Yeah. Four or five of them. That happen a lot around here?"

"Those look like owl feathers." she said in a thoughtful voice.

He studied the feathers for a moment. "So?"

"Well, owls don't flock; they're solitary. Interesting that several attacked you when someone was trying to disable our power. And owls are death omens..."

"Death omens?"

"Yeah. Death omens." She watched him intently, taking his measure on something, then nodding as if she had made a decision. "So, Dean...can you, uh, hear me out? Be, uh, open minded about some...stuff."

Dean's eyes narrowed. If he didn't know better, he could swear she was about to give him the talk.