A/N: Whelp, this is a short one, but I hope that the shorter elapsed time between uploads will make up for it. If you're interested, you can google "Three Kiva Ruins" to see some great pictures. Or Mesa Verde for more. You might also want to visit the Chapin Mesa Archeological Museum website for some pictures of artifacts and information on how the Pueblo people lived. I don't know, some of that might be useful later. ;) (Besides, I'm a history buff.)

Anyway, looks like the boys have got this case in their teeth and are starting to shake all its secrets loose. Enjoy!

Chapter 9

"Dean! Dude!" Sam abandoned the map and gear bag on the Impala's hood and strode toward Dean and the pickup. Then taking in Dean's gashed face and torn, bloody jeans, concern furrowed his brow. "What happened?"

Dean smiled easily as the knot in his gut unraveled. Sam was okay. "Dude, I'm fine. Just got lost, ya know, like I always do."

Sam caught the warning in his brother's voice and posture, the slight tilt of his head over his shoulder where the Navajo woman wearing a faded BDU jacket approached.

"This is Lizzie." Dean turned to look at her and gestured toward Sam. "Lizzie, my brother Sam."

Lizzie smirked and gave Dean a side eye. "Right. The Boy Scout."

Dean turned his face away to hide his grin.

Lizzie punched Dean in the shoulder and extended her right hand to Sam. "Nice to meet ya, Sam."

Sam kept his expression carefully neutral and took her hand, noting the callouses and the strength of her grip. "You too."

She grinned at Sam, then immediately turned to Dean. "You all right now? I gotta get back to grandma."

"Yeah," he answered, "and Lizzie, thanks for everything."

"Just take care of that leg, tough guy. Don't go busting up my perfect stitching." She stared at him with hard eyes, "And don't go getting lost again."

They watched her climb into the pickup, flip a bitch and head back the way she came.

"So," Sam caught Dean's gaze, "what happened? You look like you went a couple of rounds with a werewolf."

"I'm fine," Dean headed toward the Impala, trying very hard not to limp.

"Hey!" Sam said loudly to get Dean's attention. "Not what I asked, man. What happened to you out there?"

Dean drew up even with the hood, grabbing the gear bag and taking a look inside. "Bingo." He extracted his 1911 and put it into his waistband at the small of his back. Sam came up beside him. "Ah, gee, Sammy, I didn't get you anything."

"I'll consider getting filled in payback."

Dean sighed, "I'm tired and dirty and I want a shower. Can we talk on the way?"

"Sure," Sam replied, "if you actually plan to talk."

Dean placed a dramatic hand over his heart, "you wound me Samuel."

Sam gave him seven seconds of bitch face. "Well, if you like that, you're gonna love what I had to do to your car."

Dean stared back, at first blank faced, then as it dawned on him a host of emotions warred for center stage across his features. Suddenly he dug deep in his front pocket and stared at the betrayal of car keys in his palm, "You didn't."

"I did." Sam said almost proudly as a wide grin spread across his face.

"Dude, no." Dean seemed to deflate.

"Dude, yes." Sam made no attempt to sound sympathetic as he removed the gear bag from his brother's grip and tossed it through the open window into the backseat. "That's what you get for running off on your own, jerk."

"Bitch." Dean replied automatically as he watched Sam climb into shotgun. He glanced mournfully at the keys in his hand one more time then settled behind the wheel. He couldn't punch Sam, or even complain. Poor Baby, he caressed her wheel before sighing and reaching under the dash to twist the ignition wires. It was, after all, his own damn fault.

888

Dean inspected the cut on his thigh. Lizzie's perfect stitches were holding well, and even after the shower the edges of the wound seemed to be knitting together. He slapped a gauze square over the wound and haphazardly stretched lengths of medical tape across it to hold it in place. He stepped into his last pair of decent, sort of clean jeans and exited the small bathroom still shrugging into his cleanest t-shirt, a faint billow of steam mist following him into the room. Grabbing a beer from the mini fridge he opened it with his ring, took a long swallow and pitched the cap at the waste basket. Score! He flopped to sit back against the wall on his bed and held the cold bottle against the lump on the side of his head and looked expectantly over at Sam who sat at the table with his laptop.

"It's nine a.m.," Sam chided.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Dean replied nonchalantly, and took another swig, quickly returning the bottle to the swelling. "Besides, I been up a while."

Sam just shook his head and turned back to the screen with a sigh. "So," he began, "how's your head?"

"I'm fine, Sammy, really. Lizzie fixed me up pretty good. I've even got professional stitches in me."

"Yeah? Don't rip 'em up. I think she could kick your ass." Sam chuckled as he turned back and thoughtfully regarded Dean for a moment. "Well, I think you're – well Lizzie's – right. According to the lore I can find this sounds like a skin walker. A 'yee-whatever'."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Waitin' on the info dump Malcolm. You're the genius."

"There's not a lot. They use spells and curses against people. They wear skins to turn into certain animals, usually big black wolves." Sam arched an eyebrow wryly. "There's stories from several different tribes around here and they're all a bit different. The thing is the tribes don't talk about it so the lore, if you can wanna call it that, is pretty sketchy. A lot of guesses and my sister's cousin's dog said they saw." Sam grinned and snorted inwardly, remembering Rainbow and her source for the story of the latest disappearance.

"Yeah, Lizzie said that. She said it was bad luck to talk about them. Caught their attention." Dean chewed on his lower lip for a beat. "Then she clammed up real fast."

Sam frowned. "Do you remember anything else about where you were?"

Dean rolled his lower lip over his teeth thoughtfully. " 'Member when dad took us and we saw those little stone houses tucked under cliffs?"

"The what?" Sam's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. "Little houses?"

Dean's unfocused gaze stared off into the distance of memory. "Yeah, creepy window eyes staring down at us."

"I don't remember..."

"You were pretty little. But I just have this picture of standing under a cliff like that, little stone houses built in the overhangs. There was a trail, and a lot of people there...and I remember Park Rangers, the big hats. Dad was tracking something and that's where we ended up. I don't remember what. I was pretty little, too, I guess. Anyway, dad wanted me to stay with you, while he went somewhere alone. But I didn't want him to go," Dean closed his eyes, inspecting the memory again, "whatever he was doing, I...I was really afraid, Sam. And the place I woke up at was a lot like it. I mean, I don't think it was the same place, but...it was the same kind of place, I guess."

"I don't know, Dean. I don't remember anything like that. But what you're describing sounds like Native American ruins. There are pre-Colombian ruins all over this area of the southwest." Sam turned back and typed rapidly on his laptop. "Look at these Pueblo ruins, is this what you're talking about?"

Dean came over to stand behind Sam looking at the laptop over his shoulder as he scrolled through photographs of cliff faces with stone buildings nestled into the recesses of overhangs. "Yeah. Like these."

"These are pictures of the Three Kiva Ruins. They're about 20-30 miles south of here, as the crow flies. It's a historical landmark on BLM land."

Dean pointed to the bottom of the screen, "that looks like the pit they had me in. But this isn't the place."

"Hmmm," Sam said thoughtfully and started typing into the search engine again. "Says that pit is a sunken room called a kiva. Used for ceremonies and rituals."

Dean sat down at the table opposite Sam and studied his pensive face expectantly. It was time to get down to the real business of hunting. "So bottom line it: how do we gank one?"

"I think we need to worry about finding one first. Can you get us back to where they held you?"

"Probably not," Dean admitted. "It was dark and I just walked until I found a road, and Lizzie was at the end of it."

"And your leg was torn up, so I think we can assume it wasn't too far from her place. Think she knows where you were?"

"I didn't ask her. I thought she was just some innocent civilian. I didn't know she was going to bring any of our kind of crazy to the party."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Time to get creative. He pulled up the search engine again and began a search for pre Columbian ruins in the region. "I guess we can start with a list of ruins in the area and narrow down the locations on a map based on how far you could have walked."

"Or," Dean said, "we could just ask Lizzie." He waited until just the second before Sam's expectant gaze turned to annoyance. "Yeah, she grew up here."

"What are you waiting for then?" Sam was annoyed now. "Call her!"

"Can't. Don't have her number."

"Wait," Sam almost laughed, "YOU didn't get a girl's number? Do you really expect me to believe that?"

Dean just rolled his eyes. "It wasn't like that. Besides, no phones out there, too far off the beaten path for phones."

Sam just cocked his head, his face settling into expression annoyed-number-three.

"Hey, did your cell work out there?" Dean countered quickly, "mine didn't."

"No, it didn't," Sam conceded.

"So, we'll just have to head back out there. But not right away."

"Why?"

Dean's expression turned mock tragic. "Because first I have to fix my Baby."