A/N: No, I'm not dead. I can't apologize enough, this abandonment was not intentional. So, here's a little bit longer chapter to get you going again. Thanks to all of you reading and the kind notes. Also, I don't think I've mentioned before, but Hillside is not a real place, and is loosely modeled after a town called Moab, Utah, which is a hippy dippy, out doors-y, touristy sort of place. Hillside is its imaginary little sister. Also, the kiva (Dean's hole in the ground), and the buildings built into the cliff wall are modeled on some I've visited in Mesa Verde Colorado. Though there are Anasazi ruins all over that area of the southwest, the ones in Mesa Verde are really cool but weren't close enough to Highway 666 for my story purposes. Likewise, the mesa Sam notes on his map, The Twins, is purely in my mind, but modeled after countless mesas and goblins in Southern Utah. All will become clear in due time, but I wanted to explain that while the general location is real, Highway 666/491 is real and does have all the ghost stories and legends told about it that the boys noted (plus more!), I made up the locations they visit in and around Hillside for the sake of literary symmetry – uh, no, narrative purposes. :P Thanks again for reading, I swear it won't be six months until the next chapter, but I'm leaving prediction at that instead of jinxing myself by giving firm predictions as I have in the past. TA!
Chapter 8
After hanging up with Bobby, Sam took several deliberate deep breaths. Bobby was right. Going off half-cocked wasn't going to help anyone. First, whatever it was dragged Dean off. And there were at least two of them, judging by the tracks. He also worried about the blood he'd found. While there wasn't a great amount, it meant someone, or something, had been injured. There was no freakin' way anything was going to take Dean without a fight. So Sam had to assume that Dean couldn't fight. Which probably meant he was knocked unconscious, or in some other way subdued, and likely wounded. When the hound had come for Dean a few months ago, Dean had fought until the breath left his body. The hound had killed him, then left. Sam rubbed his gritty eyes with a thumb and forefinger. So why would it change now and not just kill him outright again? That was good wasn't it? Except they had no idea what they were dealing with, well, maybe Dean did, but there was not enough information and too much information all at once. And it wasn't to Sam's liking.
Plus, Ruby had been outright scared when they talked about the angel rescuing Dean. No, this couldn't be anything from Hell, could it? Dean said the angel had told him they had things for him to do, reasons he'd been pulled out of Hell. And since he'd been back they'd been together nearly constantly and Sam hadn't seen him do anything of cosmic importance. So, the angels wouldn't let him get taken to Hell again, would they?
He pulled up in front of their room door and separated the wires under Baby's dash. Her engine cut out and in the sudden silence Sam heard the low rumble of thunder off in the distance. He strode to the motel room door, unlocking and stepping through. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, head thrown back.
He gently thumped the back of his head against the door as he debated with himself the best course of
action. He was tired, but he had to ignore that and find the answers he needed and probably help to find Dean. He went to the kitchenette and started a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing he opened his laptop, then locating his suit coat hanging in the closet he rifled through the pockets for the Sheriff's business card.
Settling himself at the table he set the business card on top of the case folders and opened his laptop. So, he was leaning away from it being hellhounds. He knew he should feel some satisfaction at likely being right, but it was a little hollow without Dean around to say 'I told you so' to. He grabbed his dad's journal, still resting open on the other side of the table where Dean had left it, then flipped through the pages to the ones which they'd read at breakfast.
He was flipping back and forth between those few pages and the few both before and after when a newspaper scrap taped to a page caught his eye, "Shelter Officials: More Difficult to Find Homes for Big Black Dogs". Half underneath was a slip of paper pulled from a spiral bound notebook with a short list: Black Dog Tavern, Cape Cod; Led Zeppelin song; Character in Treasure Island; Black Dog Inn, Co. Memories of their dad's Crazy Walls skipped through Sam's mind; these were just the kind of things Dad would tape to a wall along with the maps and scraps of newspaper and photos as he pieced together a case. He couldn't see how any of these inconsistent bits of trivia would help him now. Another sentence caught his eye: "A guy named Frank Gutierrez told me with a straight face that Route 666 is thick with devil dogs." Sam sighed, well maybe that was turning out to be true, in one way or another, but it didn't seem like any devil dogs he had a passing familiarity with. He shut the journal. He wasn't getting anywhere reading the same things over and over. He went back to his laptop and started searching for sightings of big black dogs on Hwy 491.
A long while later Sam came up for air. He'd found some stories, sure, vague ones, outlandish ones, contradictory ones, but mostly non-helpful ones. Then there were the legends. And the rumors and and the gossip. Mostly about Indian curses and a ranch near a reservation a few hours north. He glanced at his watch. Earlier he'd called the Sheriff's office asking if there was anyone who knew the area available to guide him, he'd reluctantly been told that they had no formal SAR available unless they called in the state or volunteers from near the national parks. But, they informed him, this wasn't an actual hiking area, but rather a patchwork of BLM and private land, which presented access issues besides. However, he could try talking to a Deputy with some knowledge of the nearby backcountry when she was on shift the following day. Sam had mentally ticked the Sheriff off of his list of possible help.
Elbows on the table he held his head in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. He was just spinning his wheels again. Even if Bobby had left soon after their phone call he was still more than 12 hours drive time out, and he didn't seem nearly as worried as Sam was. Not that he would take his time, but Sam doubted Bobby was going to hit town before maybe mid-afternoon tomorrow. He knew he should have more faith in his brother, but, he reasoned, it was more that he didn't have faith in the forces that were always working against them. Except the certain knowledge that whatever they did something was always going to try to knock the Winchester boys flat on their asses. Then laugh and taunt them for good measure.
Without thinking, Sam got up and started pacing the small room. He glanced at his watch, nearly eight pm. A quick flick at the edge of the curtain confirmed that it was full dark out. Clouds were scudding across the sky, playing tag with the moon. Reason firmly said that searching unknown back country on his own, at night, was the height of stupidity. Sam had always prided himself on on his intellect. So he grabbed his jacket and left the room, intending to walk off his jitters, clear his head and find some dinner. And maybe some whiskey.
888
Lizzie was chewing thoughtfully on a thumbnail, but paused for a minute to plumb the depths of the coffee in her mug as if for clearer answers. "Look, I know it all sounds insane. But I've seen things. These aren't just stories to scare kids." She paused and scoffed softly under her breath. "Or savages trying to explain the weather. I mean, we're taught never to talk about them, especially at night," looking nervous she glanced at the curtain covered window, "That can call them to us. Make us known and they will become an enemy. They live to hurt people. They use poisons, and spells to make people sick. But mostly, they seem to scare people to death, or attack and kill when in animal form."
She looked up, meeting Dean's gaze tentatively. He considered, for a hot minute, if he should give her the real talk, but nixed that for the immediate future. "I believe you." He told her firmly, but didn't elaborate. "So these yee naald-a-whatevers, they're, what? Like witches?"
"Yee naaldlooshii." She supplied. "Yeah, witch is one name for them."
Dean kept his poker face on; things were starting to fall into place. "So, Wicked Witch of the West here?"
Lizzie's tense face broke into a slight grin. "Yeah, we're talking 'I'll get you my pretty...' 'cept it's the little dog that does the killing. Technically they are healers, but yee naaldlooshii are very powerful, and corrupted by evil. They have to commit evil acts to even become yee naaldlooshii. Usually murdering a family member."
They both soaked that in for a moment. Then Lizzie rose and grabbed the coffee pot from the machine and refilled both mugs. She put the pot back and leaned against the counter facing the small kitchen table where Dean sat fidgeting with his mug.
"Hey, you're taking this pretty well for a bilagaana." her tone became a little skeptical.
He waited until she met his gaze. Then an eyebrow raised and his mouth quirked into a half grin. "A what?"
Lizzie grinned a little, too "A white."
Dean nodded, "well, let's just say I've seen some things, too."
Lizzie held his gaze and studied him for a moment shaking her head, seeming to wrestle with herself. "I shouldn't be talking about this to you. To anybody. But it attacked you, and it's only fair you know what you're up against."
"It attacked me?" This startled him, he was sure he hadn't said anything to her about the dogs.
"The owls."
"Ohhh, I thought you meant the d-" He stopped. "The owls?"
"These witches can possess or control animals."
"Any animal?"
"Usually just ones associated with the night, like owls, and coyotes, wolves and such," she answered hesitantly. "They can become animals, too. Their name translates to something like," and she pursed her lips, thinking for a few seconds, "'it goes on all fours'. Some stories say they can become other people so they can trick their victims. And, well, the stories say a lot of, uh, crazy things."
Dean's mind began to race. His thoughts were twisting now, control animals? Become animals? Become other people? Some kind of souped up shape shifter? And there were two of them. He'd never seen or heard of shape shifters to run in groups. And how could they turn into animals? He'd never seen any lore about that. Damn, he needed to talk to Sam. This case was getting stranger by the moment. His thoughts paused for a second and he almost broke into a grin. At least it wasn't hellhounds!
Lizzie watched Dean carefully, seeing his thoughts play out on his face. She doubted he was even aware of it, but she found it enlightening, if not a little amusing. Then he seemed to shake himself mentally, and looked up at her from under his brows. She stared at him for a beat, one eyebrow raised. "Something else attack you recently? Is that how you got hurt?"
"No," he lied with a slight grimace. "Only other thing attacked me was a sharp rock."
"Hmmm," she pursed her lips and raised her chin, looking down at him with hooded eyes. "Why don't I believe you?"
Dean's only reply was a frown and an exaggerated shrug.
"So how do we fight these things?" he kept his tone casual.
"WE don't." Lizzie said firmly, sipping at her coffee again. "Only a very powerful healer, who knows the right spells can fight them. Best to just get the hell out their way. Well, actually, best to avoid pissing them off in the first place."
"You said it's after me now. And I don't know any healers."
Lizzie suddenly looked very uncomfortable. For a moment Dean watched a nearly imperceptible succession of expressions cross her face. Then she seemed to come to a decision, "look, it's all superstition anyway. Skinwalkers aren't real, okay? I'm just playin' with ya' dude."
Skinwalkers? Sonuva... A small muscle moved in Dean's cheek in response to his clenched jaw. "You seemed pretty sure of it a few minutes ago."
Her reply was to roll her eyes over the rim of her mug. "Look, I been out in the world, dude. This is not real. It can't be real. I stopped believing in this stuff when I saw what people really do to each other."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm on leave from deployment in Iraq. People can fuck each other up without magic and changing into animals and making corpse powder or any of that other woo-woo shit." Her deep brown eyes, darkened to nearly black and her frown deepened. "My people, my ancestors, they needed a way to explain all the bad things people do to each other. I don't need that anymore. I've seen kids remote trigger IEDs and laugh at the flying body parts. People don't need a reason, or magic or..." she trailed off and turned away, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.
Dean sighed, "I get it."
Lizzie gave him a side eye, "Yeah. Sure."
"I do. Yeah, people are fucked up. They're monsters. I've seen it, too. There are real monsters out there as well. " Then he hesitated, mind racing. He was getting too close to the subject he was trying to avoid. No need to drag anyone else into this job.
"Right." Lizzie sounded resigned. But Dean noticed her hands were wrapped tightlyv around her coffee mug, at it was slightly shaking.
He chewed on his lower lip for a beat. "Like I said, I've seen some shit, too."
Lizzie watched him carefully for a moment, seeming to try reading the truth in his eyes and her intense gaze caused Dean to turn away, pretending to be ardently interested in drinking his coffee. He really didn't need this right now. He didn't want to give her the talk. And he didn't want to share "war stories", his losing battles were still too fresh. What he needed was to get back to Sam. He needed his pocket geek to fill in the blanks. And he needed to know Sam was all right.
"Almost dawn," she sighed heavily, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She'd recognized his reluctance to talk was at least as strong as her own and saw the deep shadows clouding his eyes. She'd seen that look before. Sometimes she saw it in the mirror. She didn't want to talk about it any more, either. She just wanted to get him back to town and forget about him. She had too much to deal with between grandma and her uncles and Sandler. And she was due to report back in four days. She didn't have time for this and sincerely regretted opening her mouth to this guy. She really hoped he wasn't going to be a pain in the ass. Hopefully, he'd find his brother and go home with some suitably scary ghost stories for his buddies. With a long sigh she put her mug in the sink and went to the door, grabbing her jacket from a hook beside it. She opened the front door and Dean rose and followed her.
For a moment Lizzie stood on the porch, adjusting her worn BDU jacket, "Well, I better head over to the Arrowchis place and see if I can borrow their truck so we can get you back to town. I'd invite you to come along, but you should rest that leg."
Dean only nodded, but he couldn't agree more. The pain meds were long out of his system, and he knew he wouldn't get far, though he'd never admit it.
"I won't be too long," and she carefully avoided his gaze as she started around the side of the house. After a couple of minutes he heard the rough start of a two stroke engine and Lizzie emerged from around the side of the house on an older four wheeler. She pulled up near the porch and waited a moment until the engine quieted into a softly chugging idle. "Grandma will probably sleep through, but if she should wake up, give her black coffee and smile a lot. She thinks you're cute." She revved the motor and headed down the dirt track in front of the house.
He watched until Lizzie disappeared down a drop in the track, puzzling over what she'd told him, and the way she abruptly shut down the conversation. Dean rolled his lower lip between his teeth and bit it thoughtfully, then went back into the house to finish his coffee.
888
Sam woke feeling something bumpy pressing into his cheek. He cracked his eyes and realized he'd fallen asleep with his face on his laptop. Real smooth, Sam. He congratulated himself, then peeled him face off the keys and rubbed his cheek with a fist. Then, after yawning and stretching, he checked his watch. Nearly 5 am. Great, Dean had been out there, somewhere, all day and most of the night and Sam had been oblivious. He pushed aside the remains of his tofu shawarma and the half finished beer, then stood, stretching long arms over his head and yawning mightily once again.
He wanted to head back out, but, he reminded himself searching in the dark would be futile. You can't follow tracks you can't find. So Sam bargained with himself, another hour and he'd head out. By the time he made it to the spot on the highway it would be nearing dawn then, enough light he felt like he could search. He must've missed where the tracks picked up. And dammit, he was going to search until he found them. And then he was going to find his stupid, reckless brother, knock him upside the head and drag him back. Dean couldn't just be gone. He decided to shower to pass some time, and digging through his duffle, grabbed some cleanish clothes and headed for the bathroom.
A little less than an hour later Sam filled up the Impala at a Gas 'n Sip. Inside he'd already bought a large coffee as well as several bottles of water and some protein bars. Back at the car he dumped the water and bars into the duffel he'd already packed with the shotguns, all the salt shells he had left, a flask of holy water he'd blessed that morning, as well as Dean's 1911 and the extra magazines for it and his own Taurus that were usually left in the glovebox. The Taurus itself, however, was already snugged into his waistband in the small of his back, fully loaded. Plus Ruby's knife was in the inside pocket of his jacket, where it usually rested. He still wasn't sure what they were up against, but since he couldn't get into the trunk without the keys he made ready to unload a full clip into the head of whatever he found just to see what that did.
Sam settled behind the wheel reaching under the dash to twist the wires and start the engine and began the drive out to the desert. One way or another he was going to find where the tracks picked up again and he was going to find his brother and kick his ass. Then they were going to get him a set of keys to the Impala.
888
Dean still sat at the kitchen table, left leg out awkwardly underneath, and mused into his coffee. The abrupt way Lizzie had clammed up was confusing. He remembered her reaction when she'd first let him into the house last night. There was something going on that she was worried about. Some unidentified person she'd accused him of being a messenger for. And the whole strange conversation about witches. Damn, he hated witches. It would feel good to gank them, and after he'd been knocked out, roughed up, and imprisoned in a hole, he was ready for some payback. He almost managed to suppress his feral grin when he heard the front door open. He stood quickly and headed toward the entry expecting to see Lizzie. Instead there was a teenage Navajo girl carrying a Hello Kitty backpack and popping gum.
"Hey." she said, dropping her backpack to the couch and twisting out of a puff jacket. She dropped gracelessly to the couch besides her things. "Grandma still asleep?"
"I think so. Who are you?"
She gave him a head tilt and exaggerated sigh, "Holly." And for good measure she rolled her eyes at him. "She's waiting for you...duh."
Dean gave her a crusty look and a frown. "Yeah, thanks." The he headed for the door, biting back a snarky remark. Holly was just a kid after all.
Lizzie sat behind the wheel of a four-door Chevy Silverado. Hello Kitty had left the passenger door wide open and Dean swung up on the seat without too much pain. Lizzie watched him expectantly for a moment. "I shoulda loaned you some sweats or something," she nodded at his left knee exposed by the rip in his jeans.
"Mmmm." he mumbled noncommittally, "S'okay." He just wanted to get moving and find Sam.
"All right then," Lizzie nodded and put the truck into gear.
888
Sam watched the mile-markers and slowed when he found the spot they'd been parked the day before. After cutting the engine he sat for a long moment. His thoughts weren't really formed, but he did squeeze his eyes shut and sent a silent plea to the heavens. He exited the Impala, grabbing his bag and the map from the seat beside him. Leaning against the car he spread the map partway out on the hood. Long shadows of early dawn accompanied him. He faced east and squinted into the rising sun.
In his wanderings among the black dog stories, he'd found repeated mention of a large formation called The Twins. He'd marked the coordinates on the map, it was a bit south of where he was, and he hoped to use it to keep oriented to his position relative to the highway as he searched. He'd looked at photos and remembered that it was a broken tabletop mesa with sloping sides that seemed to rise to a higher elevation than most formations in the area. He marked the place on the map with his finger and scanned the horizon to the southeast. The rising sun cast the mesas in silhouette but one stood taller than the rest. He smiled to himself, the highest mesa had a gorge splitting it's flat top nearly symmetrically. It did indeed look like twins. Sam sighed with a little relief. He took note of formations between him and the high plateaus, making some notes on his map. He had a fleeting flashback of he and Dean learning to use a map and compass to find their way, their dad's gruff voice explaining it all. Thanks, Dad. I know I gave you a lot of shit growing up, but everything you taught us... The compass, hanging from the lid of the false bottom in the trunk, was also inaccessible without keys, so he took note of the sun's position and then the time on his watch. If he kept track of the sun and the time carefully, with the map and his notes and keeping The Twins in sight, he knew he could make it back to the highway.
He was folding the map when he heard a loud honk that seemed to last forever. For a second he wondered, and checked that the Impala was completely off the road. The honking grew louder and the noise of a growling engine came up beneath it. He turned toward the sound, a large pickup was bearing down on him. He watched as the truck pulled to the shoulder of the road kicking up clouds of sand and debris as it pulled up behind the Impala and lurched to a halt. Almost before it was stopped the passenger door opened and Dean jumped to the ground calling, "Sam!"