Important A/N at the bottom. Please read!
"I know you're just doing your job," said the mother of Evan McKay, a young boy from Hibbing, Minnesota, who claimed to have witnessed the unusual vanishing of his neighbor, Alvin Jenkins, the other night. "But the police have been here all week already. I don't see why we have to go through this again. The more he tells the story, the more he believes it's true."
While the cops were somewhat attempting to track down the missing man, they didn't seem in much of a rush, especially not after they spoke to Evan. To everyone else, his statement came across as a child who stayed awake past bedtime and fabricated an oddball story for fun.
For us, the more bizarre, the closer we looked. I was, however, not in favor of the stupid uniforms Sam stuffed us into. Pretending to be some form of high-status official was one thing—I could handle a pantsuit. But the tan button-down and matching pants were far too tight in all the wrong places and crossed a line for me. It didn't end there, of course. Sam added an extra layer of ick by tacking on a brown-fluff-lined leather jacket with embroidered State Police badges on the chest. Even now, while attempting to maintain some form of professionalism, I squirmed in the itchy fabric.
Sam took off his hat—identical to the one I refused to wear, opting to keep it in my hands—and nodded to appease the woman. "Mrs. McKay, we know you spoke with the local authorities–"
"But this seems like a matter for the state police," Dean finished, also removing his hat and tucking it under his arm.
Evan looked nervous, keeping his head tilted toward his loose shoelaces. Dean waited with his pen at the ready to take notes of the boy's account, providing he ever spoke. Getting shut down and told you were imagining things was a surefire way to deter you from opening up again.
"You don't need to worry about how it sounds, Evan," I said. "Whatever you saw, you can tell us, okay?"
Either he'd talk on his own, or his Mom would coax him. I'd prefer the former. Evan filled his lungs and let his hands drop. "I was up late, watching TV," he began tentatively, "when I heard this weird noise..."
"What did it sound like?"
"Like a monster."
"Tell the officers what you were watching on TV," Ms. McKay prompted. In spite of her annoyance brewing below the surface, it was clear she was worried for her son—probably his sanity more than anything, but still.
"Godzilla vs. Mothra," Evan admitted.
Excitement rolled off of Dean in palpable waves. "That's my favorite Godzilla movie," he gushed. "It's so much better than the original, huh?"
Evan smiled, the first sign of extroversion we'd seen from him. "Totally!"
"He," Dean gestured to his brother with disgust, "likes the remake."
Almost as quick as it'd come, Evan's grin drooped into a frown. "Yuck."
Overtop of my head, Sam glared daggers at his brother, harsh and unmoving.
"Did you happen to see the monster?" I asked lightheartedly for his mother's benefit.
"No," Evan replied. "But I saw it grab Mr. Jenkins. It pulled him underneath the car."
"Then what?" Sam prompted.
Evan sighed, looking toward the window. "It took him away. I hnoeard the monster leaving. It made this really scary sound."
"What did it sound like?"
"Like this… whining growl," he explained, brown eyes dripping with terror. People can say whatever they want about children and their imaginations, but I don't think a kid could fake that kind of fear.
"Bullseye!" I spun on my heel to face Dean wearing my cockiest grin. "Again."
"You just wait for my comeback." He wagged a finger.
"I've been waiting for that this whole time," I jested. On his way to pry the darts out of the board, Dean stopped short and kissed me. The unexpected gesture was enough to make me forget about our dumb little game, if only for a moment. —
While he prepared for his turn, I returned to our nearby table for a drink. Sam barely lifted his nose from the newspaper clippings he'd been staring at for the past half hour. "So, local police have now ruled out foul play," he said.
"Hah!" Dean exclaimed, snapping his fingers. He looked over his shoulder at me expectantly. "You see that?"
"See what?" I leaned an elbow on the table. Dean indicated to the dart smack in the middle of the board with an open palm. My glass hid my smirk. "Oh, no, sorry, I wasn't looking."
"That's fine," he jutted his chin, "plenty more where that came from."
"I'm sure," I teased. Amid my and Dean's playful bickering, it took me a moment to remember what Sam said. "So, what do they think?" I asked after I finally did.
"Apparently, there were signs of a struggle," Sam informed.
"Well, they could be right. It could just be a kidnapping," Dean said, aiming another dart. "Maybe this isn't our kind of gig."
"Yeah, maybe not."
"Evan looked really scared, though," I pointed out.
"And this," Sam replaced the newspapers with John's journal, cracking it open to two pages chock-full of information, "Dad marked the area. Possible hunting grounds of a phantom attacker."
Dean forewent our game and made his way over to take a look. "Why would he even do that?"
"Well, he found a lot of local folklore about a dark figure that comes out at night. Grabs people, then vanishes. He found this too—" Sam pointed to the lower half of the book. "This county has more missing persons per capita than anywhere else in the state."
"That's weird," I said, inspecting a Post-It with a manic, scribbled drawing of a thin, horned, humanoid figure. Whether I was talking of the missing people or the doodle, well, even I wasn't sure.
"Don't phantom attackers usually snatch people from their beds?" Dean asked, offering me the darts. I stuck the note back in its place and took them. "Jenkins was taken from a parking lot," he pointed out.
"Well, there are all kinds. You know, Springhill Jacks, phantom gassers," Sam said. "They take people anywhere, anytime. Problem is, they're practically untraceable."
"So, how do you trace the untraceable?" I asked.
Sam shrugged. "Look, guys, I don't know if this is our kind of gig either, but–"
"Yeah, you're right; we should ask around more tomorrow," Dean said. "What are you waiting for?" he asked me and nodded to the dartboard. "Scared?"
I propped a hand on my hip. "Of what?"
"Losing," he grinned.
"Yeah," I scoffed, "Right."
"Well, I saw a motel about five miles back," Sam announced, gathering the papers into his laptop bag.
"Whoa, whoa," Dean started, "easy. Let's have another round."
"Why?" I wondered. "You wanna get your ass kicked some more?"
"Says the one who won't even take her turn," he retorted.
"We should get an early start," Sam declared, attempting to be the voice of reason.
"You really know how to have fun, don't you, Grandma?"
"Hey, I have an idea." I dropped the darts on the table and slipped my arms around Dean's torso. "We could get our own room again."
His eyes simultaneously lit with excitement and darkened with lust. "You know, that sounds like a great idea. Alright, I'll meet you two outside." Dean kissed my temple and stepped out of my arms to grab his jacket. "I gotta take a leak."
"Who says romance is dead?" I joked as he disappeared into the bathroom. Sam snorted out a laugh, and we began heading for the exit. I fidgeted with the jacket draped over my arm. There were plenty of questions I wanted to ask him. Ultimately, only one mattered. "How are you holding up, Sam?"
"Fine," he shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I haven't moved anything else with my mind if that's what you're asking."
God, that's a relief, I thought. "I'm not worried about that," I said. "I just wanted to check in. Will you be okay if Dean and me—"
"Finally, get a room?" Sam poked fun. I rolled my eyes. "Uh, yeah," he laughed, "I think I'll be just fine."
We got as far as the bar when I remembered the tab. "You go ahead; I gotta pay."
Sam reached for his wallet. "Let me do it."
"Don't worry about it." I waved it off. It's not like it mattered. Our money pooled together, anyway.
"Alright. See you outside," he said and left.
While waiting for the bartender to finish preparing a couple's drinks, the cold bartop drew me in until my body weight settled in my arms. Sickeningly sweet alcohol pierced my nose and drifted to my head. It was probably for the best we were leaving. Another drink was something I didn't need right now.
"Hey," Dean announced his presence before sliding up behind me, hands on my hips. "Where's Sam?"
"He went to the car," I replied, leaning into his touch. Dean waited with me until the tab was closed, and then we ventured outside together.
The ground was slick with a fresh coat of rain, and the temperature had dropped several degrees since we arrived. My breath fanned out in front of my face, dissipating in the air. It wasn't until we reached the Impala that the lack of Sam became apparent. His newspaper and journal sat on the hood, barely staying put with all the wind. There was no reason for him to leave the car and go on foot. If he saw something, he would've waited for us, or at the very least called before running off to God knows where after God knows what.
Dean opened the car and peered inside. "He's not here."
"Well, he's gotta be somewhere," I said, managing to keep my nerves to a minimum. We couldn't go directly into panic mode; this whole thing was probably one big misunderstanding we'd laugh about later.
Although the parking lot was small, barely larger than the actual bar itself, we decided to split up and cover more ground faster. Dean's echoing calls for his brother bounced off my own while we searched. If Sam were nearby, there's no doubt he'd hear us.
Plenty of puddles littered the asphalt, but no wet bootprints to follow. There were zero signs of anything amiss or out of place. Sam was just… gone.
Walking on stiff legs and constantly shooting glances over my shoulders, I hustled back to the bar's front door, where we agreed to meet. The moment Dean's pale, sweat-covered face came into light, I knew better than to be hopeful.
"Nothing?" I asked breathlessly. I imagine this is how every mother who lost their child in a busy store felt—a disturbance directly in the center of the stomach, like an elephant decided to sit on you and wouldn't leave.
"No," he panted. "I asked around, and nobody saw him, either, and– wait." Dean pointed to two security cameras at the top of a streetlight. "I'm sure they caught it."
"Those are cop cams, Dean. How the hell are we gonna get the footage?"
"We gotta go ask for it," he said, stomping back to the Impala on determined feet.
"And talk to the police?" I followed him. "About this?"
"I mean, look, if you got a better idea, I'm all ears."
"I don't have a better idea, but did you forget what happened in Missouri?" I asked, mentally batting off images of the shifter in Dean's form lying dead on the floor. "'Cause I haven't."
"Of course, I haven't." He stopped at the trunk to face me. "Look, legally, I'm dead. We use the IDs, keep our heads on straight, they won't know a thing."
"I hope so," I agreed reluctantly because what other choice was there?
As I reached for the passenger door handle, a gleam on the ground caught my eye. Bootprints came from the back of the Impala and stopped directly beside where I stood. The final one was only half-stamped at the toe; the rest slashed underneath the car.
"Dean," I called, "look at this."
He rounded the front end in a rush, and together, we crouched down to get a closer look at where the track led. For the first time in a while, I feared the unknown. Was it possible Sam wasn't answering, not because he was no longer here, but because he simply couldn't? Dread built in my chest, tumbling through my throat and getting dangerously close to my mouth. Halfway down, my knees nearly gave way; Dean kept going, so I couldn't let him do it alone.
Sam wasn't there. I didn't know whether to be relieved or even more discouraged.
Down the street from the local sheriff's office, Dean and I waited in the Impala until sunrise. Neither of us wanted to sleep, so we didn't even try. I found myself obsessively leafing through the evidence Sam had collected, hoping I'd find something that sparked a lead. Then I realized, a lead to what? Nothing in the lore was substantial. Every phantom attacker was just that—a phantom. The only clue they left behind was the emptiness caused by a lost loved one.
Once the department opened, we wasted no time and entered immediately. The dark-haired Deputy behind the desk checked her watch before greeting us with a curious smile. "What can I do for you two this morning?"
"A lot, I hope," Dean said. "I'm Officer Washinton, and this is my partner, Officer Meyers."
We flashed our fake State Police IDs and started to put them away, but the officer had other ideas in mind and made a gimme motion with her hand. Nobody—definitely not a cop who most likely knew what to look for—had ever scrutinized one of these so closely. Dean didn't flinch, his poker face firmly in place. I tried to keep my confidence as level as when I strolled in.
"What can I do for you?" she finally asked, returning the badges.
"We're looking into a recent missing persons," I said.
"I didn't know the Jenkins case was being covered by the state police."
"No, there's someone else," Dean informed. "Actually, he's my cousin. We were having a few last night at this bar down by the highway and haven't seen him since."
At the mention of a bar, Deputy Hudak grimaced. "Does your cousin have a drinking problem?"
"Sam?" Dean scoffed and shook his head. "Two beers, and he's doing karaoke. He wasn't drunk. He was taken."
"Alright." Deputy Hudak pushed from the counter and led us to a computer. "What's his name?"
"Sam Winchester."
She smiled. "Like the rifle?"
"Like the rifle."
While she focused her attention on the monitor, Dean angled one of the chairs out for me before taking the other. I sat with my back ramrod straight. Calm and confidence were two things I struggled to find today.
"Samuel Winchester." Hudak's transparent green eyes scanned the page, bouncing from word to word. "You know that Samuel's brother, Dean Winchester, died in St. Louis. And was suspected of murder, right?" she asked, shooting Dean an ambiguous glance. I had to think about each breath taken as though it wasn't something that came naturally.
"Yeah, Dean," he said with a breathy laugh, "kind of the black sheep of the family. Handsome, though," Dean added for absolutely no logical reason whatsoever. Concealed by the desk, I smacked his ankle with the side of my boot.
By some miracle, the Deputy didn't think much of the one-off comment. "Well, Samuel is not showing up in any current field reports."
"We already have a lead," I said. Despite the quiver in my chest, my voice came out surprisingly assured. "There are traffic cameras on that highway. We think it probably captured whatever took him."
"Or whoever," Dean said to correct my misstep.
"I have access to the traffic cam footage down at the county works department…" she trailed, catching herself. Deputy Hudak retrieved a clipboard with a form from a nearby file cabinet. "Let's do this the right way," she handed it to Dean, "why don't you fill out a missing persons report and sit tight over here?"
"That's kind of unnecessary, isn't it?" I asked. I'd be damned if Sam became another form filed away with all the others.
"It's protocol, you know that."
"Officer, look, he's family," Dean said, standing with the clipboard still in his hands. "I kind of look out for him. You gotta let us go with you."
The deputy's brows creased in remorse. "I'm sorry, I can't do that."
"Well, tell me something. Your county has its fair share of missing persons. Any of them come back?" he asked. Deputy Hudak, who hadn't once struggled to maintain eye contact this entire conversation, shifted her sights to the ground. "He's my responsibility. And he's coming back; I'm bringing him back."
No matter how emotional the plea, it'd be easy for her to write it off—to push doing things the right way—but behind the air of impenetrable hubris that most police officers wore to conceal their emotions, Deputy Hudak softened and took extra time to process Dean's words.
"Okay," she relented and returned the clipboard to the shelf. True calm wouldn't come until we found Sam, but this was a close second. "Don't worry about the paperwork; you can tag along, but no going inside."
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
The deputy nodded and adjusted her belt. "We'll head over now."
So I didn't feel like a criminal in the backseat, Deputy Hudak switched out her usual cruiser for one with no caged partition and drove us to the county works department. To Dean's dismay, she stayed true to her word and went inside alone to access our information. Rather than sit in the car and dwell on what we couldn't do, I suggested we walk the path around a park across the street.
"You think Sam's okay, right?" Dean asked out of the blue, arm grazing mine as we moved synchronously. "I mean, he's gotta be."
"He's a Winchester; he's just fine," I said. "I mean, he's probably kicking that thing's ass right now."
My words achieved their desired effect, Dean laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure you're right."
"Greg, Anne," Deputy Hudak called our names as she hustled across the knoll with a thin stack of papers stapled together at the corner. "These traffic cams take an image every three seconds as part of the Amber Alert program." She handed them to me. "These images were all taken around the time that Sam Winchester disappeared."
Angling them so Dean could see, I leafed through the pages. One after the other, all the images showed was a dark highway with sporadic headlights speeding past. Nothing coming into or going out of the parking lot, and nothing that would help our situation.
"This really isn't what we're looking for," Dean said.
"Just wait, wait—next one," Hudak said, tapping the paper. Halfway out of the lot was a busted-up compact RV, panels of rust replacing what was probably once white metal. "This one was taken right after Sam left the bar." She flipped to the next photo, a close-up of the back end. "Look at the plates."
The license plate's perfectly white metal stuck out like a sore thumb against the ratty backdrop of the RV. "They're new," I said. "It might be stolen."
"So, whoever's driving that rust bucket must be involved."
Before I could initiate a sprint back to the car to run the plates, a black, windowless van splattered and caked with dirt drove down the street, making a screechy squeal with each turn of the wheel. I scowled at the obnoxious sound.
"Hear that engine?" Dean said with an edge to his voice that caught my attention.
"Yeah?" Deputy Hudak wondered, none the wiser.
"Kind of like a whining growl, isn't it?" he asked, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
Suddenly, my annoyance at the disruption was charged with an entirely different reason. This was the very thing Evan Mckay must have heard—the one responsible for Mr. Jenkins's disappearance. For Sam's. My blood boiled as the silver van drove past us down the road, going about their day like they weren't monsters hiding in plain sight.
Our hunch was correct; the license plate was stolen, which meant no accurate address to link to that shitty RV. No other surveillance camera within fifty miles caught it, which meant it pulled off somewhere along the way. Since we were out in the middle of nowhere, people's properties were set exceptionally far back, and all had their own private roads. By now, I expected to be hitting the books, finding more info about whatever creature we spotted on those cams. Instead, we arrived back at square one.
"So," Deputy Hudak started with a guard in her voice that wasn't present before, "I ran your badge numbers," she announced. Seemingly, every muscle in my body tensed all at once. "It's routine when we're working a case with state police. For accounting purposes and what have you."
Dean nodded along, playing it much cooler than I was. "Of course."
Hudak pulled the cruiser off to the side of the road. "They just got back to me," she said. "It says here your badges were stolen. And there are pictures of you."
Tapping a couple of buttons on her keyboard, she turned the mounted computer screen so we could see two images, one of a heavyset African-American man and the other a tall, lanky brunette with short hair.
"Those are old pictures." Dean chuckled sheepishly. "I lost some weight, and she," he jutted a thumb back to me, "got some work done."
"Okay, one at a time, step out of the car," Hudak instructed, taking off her seatbelt.
"Wait, wait," I urged, clutching the top of Dean's seat. "You don't understand."
"You're right. I don't even know who you really are. Or if this Sam person is missing."
"Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm lying about this," Dean implored.
"Identity theft?" the deputy asked, raising an eyebrow. "The two of you are impersonating officers."
"And if you wanna arrest me, that's fine," Dean said, ignoring my sputtering state of shock. "I'll cooperate, I swear; just let her go–"
"No way," I denied, digging my nails into his shoulder.
"You can still find Sam, alright?" he told me. "Please," Dean begged the cop, "she only went along with all this because of me."
The Deputy shook her head. "You expect me to believe that?"
"It's true."
"Even if it were, I can't do that. Both of you broke the law."
"Look, here's the thing. When Sam and me were young, I pretty much pulled him from a fire," Dean pleaded, telling her more about his life than most anyone knew in a last-ditch effort. "And ever since then, I've felt responsible for him—you know, like it's my job to keep him safe. I'm just afraid if we don't find him fast–" he roughly reined in his emotions. "Please. He's our family."
"You've given me no choice. I have to take you in," Deputy Hudak said.
My cold hands raked across my face and through my hair. What happens when they run Dean's prints—when they think they've somehow found their dead homicidal maniac from St. Louis alive and well and fit to stand trial? A slap on the wrist would quickly turn into life. Or worse. My spiraling was interrupted by the determined click of Deputy Hudak's seatbelt.
"After we find Sam Winchester," she finished.
"Are you serious?" I squeaked through a clenched throat. For the second time today, my heart did a backflip. Instead of replying with words, she pulled back onto the road.
Another sleepless night had come and gone without us any closer to locating Sam. While we searched, Deputy Hudak refused to let us out of her sight, as though we would take off running like Bonnie and Clyde. In the backseat, my fingers laced together, resting atop my lap, thumb tapping in time with the toe of Dean's boot hitting the floorboard. That didn't last long—the deputy promptly shut down the noise and suggested we get some coffee to liven us up.
After a few sips, my brain was already firing faster than before, and the warmth took my thoughts away from my freezing hands.
"Hey, Officer?" Dean called, a cup of coffee in hand as we walked back to the cruiser. "Look, I don't mean to press our luck—"
Hudak cocked an eyebrow. "Your luck is so pressed."
"Right," he nodded, "I was just wondering—why are you helping us out, anyway? Why don't you just lock us up?"
An internal tug of war showed on her face. "My brother, Riley, disappeared three years ago," she admitted. "We searched for him, but nothing. I know what it's like to feel responsible for someone and for them—"
To not come home is what I assumed the deputy was about to say. Rather than continue, she told us we should keep at it and made a beeline for her car. It went without saying that I wished the reason behind her being so committed to helping us didn't come from such sadness. If anything, maybe this would provide some closure for her.
Back in the squad car, we headed to a different part of town that was more secluded than the last section scoped. My sights were glued to the passing left treeline—the leaves were just as dry and brittle as my eyes had become. No matter how much it stung, I only blinked when tears started to accumulate, afraid I'd miss something important.
"Wait, wait!" Dean exclaimed suddenly, pointing out his passenger window. "Pull over!"
Hudak jerked the car into a small path of flattened grass that led deep through the trees and weeds. "What is it?" she asked.
"This is the first turn-off I've seen so far," Dean said, getting out of the vehicle before it stopped.
"Hold on," Deputy Hudak called, throwing the car in park as I slipped out of the backseat to follow Dean. She rounded the car to meet us on the other side. "Wait, both of you."
"For what? We have to go look," I said.
"No, you stay here. I'll check it out."
Dean scoffed, "No way."
"Hey, you're civilians. And felons, I think. I'm not taking you with me."
"You shouldn't go in there alone," I said. "You have no clue what you're walking into."
Deputy Hudak pursed her lips in thought. "Alright," she decided. "Promise you won't get involved? You'll let me handle it?"
I nodded, while Dean replied, "Yeah, I promise." Of course, we were both lying through our teeth; she didn't need to know that, though.
"Shake on it." She extended her hand to Dean. No sooner than when their palms touched, Hudak secured a pair of handcuffs around his wrist. Leaves crunched under my feet as I took a step forward but stopped when the Deputy rested a hand on her taser. "I don't want to have to use this one you."
"Well, that I agree with," I mumbled.
Begrudgingly, we followed her back to the cruiser, where she attached Dean to the driver's door and cuffed my hands behind my back before ushering me into the backseat and locking the car. At least she had the decency to crack a window.
"This is ridiculous, Kathleen," Dean huffed. "I really think you're gonna need our help."
"I'll manage. Thank you," she said as she left. Through the tinted windows, her frame grew smaller and disappeared into the brush.
Dean complained, primarily to himself, about needing to start carrying paper clips. Straining, he reached across the length of the rear door, exhaled sharply, and stopped. "Can you get to the front?"
"Uh–" I leaned forward, accessing the space between the front seats. "I'll try."
Leaning back, I threaded my left leg through to the front of the cab, using the other to push me up until my foot hit the floor by the pedals. Whirring metal scraped, echoing alongside an equally loud motor. This time, when Dean reached, something clattered against the window and fell to the ground. As I propelled myself through the gap, my foot got caught between the passenger seat and the center console.
"Shit," I cursed under my breath. On my third time pulling my knee to my chest, my boot popped loose, and I landed in the driver's seat. Thankfully, my elbow hadn't accidentally hit the horn.
Still hindered by my cuffs, it took some finagling before my hands could graze along the door in search of the lock. Muffled voices and twigs snapping under feet headed our way. A final flick of the button unlocked the door, which, without warning, swung open, nearly sending me tumbling to the ground. Before my off-kilter self hit the dirt, Dean—now free of his own restraints—caught me, and we fled to a nearby cover of overgrown bushes. While there, Dean got to work using what looked to be a car antenna to unlock my cuffs.
Two men wearing trucker hats came into view; their plaid button-downs, white wife beaters, and blue jeans all stained various shades of black and grey. I wracked my brain to determine what they could be—a shapeshifter, a revenant, some kind of a werewolf. None of those options seemed to fit.
"I've never seen him so angry before," the taller of the two said in a country twang—like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"Well, Lee, never been followed by the police before," the other deduced in an equally thick accent, unlocking Deputy Hudak's car with her keys and slipping inside. Since he had those, then that meant they had her. The last thing I wanted was someone else getting hurt in all this.
Dean nodded for us to go, tucking my cuffs into his back pocket before leading me through the property.
In the densely wooded area, it felt like we'd been walking for miles before happening upon an old, rundown barn at the back edge of the property. The damn thing looked like it would knock over with one strong gust of wind; I had no clue how it was still standing. Of course, being thorough, Dean stopped at the large double doors to see if one was unlocked. Its hinges creaked and groaned, revealing a nearly pitch-black interior, save for two or three dim spotlights at the ceiling.
"Holy shit," Dean breathed, surveying the area.
"I second that," I said, astonished. What little light there was cast beams across multiple metal cages that were attached to beams, rods, and mechanical hoses. And here I thought they were monsters posing as dimwitted people. This was a whole operation in their backyard.
"Dean?" Sam called. "Tori?"
Being more careful about where my feet landed or how fast was the smarter approach, but none of that mattered now, and I sprinted to the sound of his voice with Dean close behind. Inside one of the cages smack in the center of the barn was a disheveled Sam; his hair clung to his forehead and face, and his shirt was stained with dirt.
"Are you hurt?" Dean asked, clinging to the metal bars that separated him from his brother.
"No," Sam answered, looking like this was the first dose of comfort he'd gotten in days.
"Damn," Dean happily smacked the side of the enclosure, "it's good to see you."
"How did you get out of the cuffs?" a scratchy voice asked from behind. In a cage diagonal from Sam's sat Deputy Hudak, legs sprawled and palms flat on the ground.
"Oh, we know a trick or two," Dean replied.
"Are you okay, Kathleen?" I asked, zeroing in on the two horizontal slashes on her cheek.
"I've been better," she mumbled through sticky lips.
"These locks look like they're gonna be a bitch," Dean announced, inspecting the huge metal contraption keeping Sam's cage shut.
"There's some kind of automatic control over there," Sam pointed to an electric box across the way. "They just press a few buttons and operate the whole thing."
On his way to it, Dean asked, "Have you seen them?"
"Yeah. Dude, they're just people."
Although we had just received an earth-shattering revelation, and Dean was trying to focus on figuring out the controls, he still had time to crack a joke. "And they jumped you? Must be getting a little rusty there, kiddo."
"Wait, that's all they are?" I asked. People hurt each other all the time, but this? It crossed a line no person can come back from and still call themselves human.
Sam gave one short nod. "That's all."
"What do they want?" Dean wondered, leaning back to catch a different angle of the panel.
"I don't know. They let Jenkins go, but that was some sort of trap. It doesn't make any sense to me."
"Well, that's the point. You know, with our usual playmates," Dean called them, careful to avoid anything too descriptive for the deputy's benefit, "there's rules, there's patterns. But with people, they're just crazy."
"Did you guys see anything else out there?"
I shook my head. "Just about a dozen junked cars hidden around the place."
"Plates from all over, too," Dean added, "So I'm thinking when they take someone, they take their car, too. You know, hide the evidence."
"Did you see a black Mustang?" Hudak asked. "About ten years old?"
Dean briefly looked at me, sharing his concern about whether or not to tell her the truth. I nodded; she needed to know. "Yeah, actually, I did," he finally said. Deputy Hudak exhaled a breath that sounded decades old. "Your brother's?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, it was," she said.
"I'm sorry," he told her, heartfelt. "Let's get you guys out of here; then we'll take care of those bastards." Dean pointed to the electric box. "This thing takes a key?"
"I think so, yeah," Sam said, "it seemed like it anyway."
"Alright, I better go find it," Dean said, shutting the control panel. "Stay here, watch out for them," he told me.
"Be careful, please," I begged. "And don't touch anything!"
Dean nodded and disappeared into the night.
DPOV:
Going through the rickety, two-story home undetected was one hell of a test of my patience. Every other step creaked a loose floorboard and sent a nail flying or crunched decaying wood. The whole place was straight out of a B-rated horror movie—dark, dingy, and smelled like putrid rotten meat and cigarette smoke. In the basement, I accessed through an open cellar door, my flashlight reflected off the tops of glass specimen jars stacked on a junk-lined rack smack in the center of the room. Each was filled with a thick, clear liquid encasing swollen, pale blobs of body parts and organs.
The key; find the key. That's what I came here for. Getting distracted wasn't an option. At least, that's what I told myself until I met the opposite side of the frame loaded with Polaroid pictures—some taped, some glued—all spine-chilling. The two guys taking Deputy Hudak's cruiser, as well as an equally grungy older man, posed in various proud positions with murdered people like hunters photographing themselves with their trophy kills.
My whole life, I'd never seen anything like it before. Demons, I get, people are crazy.
Up the flight of nearly caved-in stairs was the uneven sound of an old gramophone playing a skipping record. The floor was bare, save for pieces of ripped-up carpet still stuck in place and clumps of tracked-in mud. Some sunlight entered through the windows, so I could finally shut off my flashlight and free up both hands. While keeping an eye on the room in front of me, I didn't notice anything in my path until something hit me in the head. Without thinking, I grabbed it to stop its hollow clinking. Of course, the makeshift windchime was comprised of human bones strung together. I shouldn't be surprised. Gotta add taking a bath in Clorox to my list of things to do later tonight.
Beyond the scratchy music was something far more unsettling; bones crunching and a saw ripping through flesh came from down the hall. Finding an item somewhat passable as a weapon wasn't too difficult in this place. Leaning in the corner of the room was a long block of wood with a huge nail protruding from the top front. I held that thing like my life depended on it and crept closer to the occupied room. Clutter littered the floor, and the beat-up wooden island smack in the center of the kitchen. Above it was a metal rod hanging from the ceiling, supporting an array of saws and hooks. A man stood with his back to the entrance, putting all his weight behind hacking at a huge slab of meat on the counter. He swung around to retrieve something from the island, and I ducked behind the wall.
On a small table beside the initial doorway was a tray full of rings, coins, and one single key directly in the center. As I reached for it, something else caught my eye. I lifted the mason jar beside the case of valuables to inspect it closer. Inside were dozens upon dozens of human teeth. Tori's voice telling me, "Don't touch anything!" rattled through my mind. I cringed, about to put the jar back down, grab the key, and make a run for the bar when the extra wobbly-looking floorboard I specifically missed creaked and groaned. This house had been making all kinds of noises from the moment I stepped inside, but this? This one was different. Someone was there. I turned, ready to use the weapon I'd found, but found a soot-covered little girl with unbrushed hair who was just as startled to see me as I was her.
"It's okay," I said quietly. "I'm not gonna hurt you." To let her know I meant it, I set the board down.
"I know," the little girl declared with a slow smile that revealed rotten teeth. She threw out a sharp knife, pinning my jacket to the wall before I could jump out of the way.
"Jesus!" I hissed, pulling on the blade.
"Daddy!" she screamed.
Just as I managed to rip the knife from the wall, a figure dashed out from one of the adjacent rooms. As I readied myself to fight him, another set of arms grabbed me from behind and unknowingly gave me the leverage I needed to kick away the oncoming attack from the first guy, but it didn't do much for the other. He took hold of my jacket and tossed me into a stray piece of furniture in the living room. For the most part, I held my own and got in a few good punches on both attackers, even able to distract one by kicking a nearby plastic stool into his face and successfully putting space between us.
"I'm gonna kick your ass first," I told the shorter of the two. "Then yours." I pointed to the other. Their slack-jawed expressions twisted into sinister smiles. A sharp sound filled my head before the pain registered. The room rotated, and everything went black.
Voices rattled through the darkness, traveling through shallow tunnels that were my ears.
"Come on, Pa," a man urged. "Let us hunt him." The stale, herby smell of cheap cigarettes and ash flooded my nose; warmth from a fire lapped at my restrained arms and coaxed me out of my stupor. "Yeah, this one's a fighter," another agreed excitedly, "sure would be fun to hunt."
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," I groaned, lifting my aching head and blinking my blurred vision clear. In front of me was the creepiest family portrait imaginable; both sons stood, one behind their sitting father and the other with his hand firmly clamped on the little girl's shoulder. "That's what this is about?" I asked. "You yahoos hunt people?"
A sickening smile spread beneath the older man's unkempt beard, revealing a mouth full of yellow and black teeth. "You ever kill before?" he asked, eyes so dark, I couldn't tell the difference between his pupil and iris.
"That depends on what you mean," I said.
"I've hunted all my life. Just like my father, his before him. I've hunted deer and bear—I even got a cougar once, huh, boys?" Pa asked his sons, who nodded so rapidly that their tucker hats nearly fell off. "But the best hunt is human. Oh, there's nothing like it." His otherwise dim eyes sparked with joy. "Holding their life in your hands. Seeing the fear in their eyes just before they go dark. Makes you feel powerful—alive."
"You're a sick puppy."
"We give 'em a weapon," he argued—as though they made a damn difference—and stood. "Give 'em a fighting chance. It's kind of like our tradition passed down, father to son. Of course, only one or two a year. Never enough to bring the law down, we never been that sloppy."
"Yeah, well, don't sell yourself short," I said, struggling against the ropes around my wrists and ankles. "You're plenty sloppy."
"So, what, you with that pretty cop?" Pa questioned, resting hands on his knees to be eye level with me. "Are you a cop?"
"If I tell you, you promise not to make me into an ashtray?"
One look at his sons sent the taller one flying in my direction in a flash; his fist connected to my face and sent my head snapping backward, delivering a wash of pain that stung my eyes. Warmth tricked from my nose, rolling down over my lips.
"Only reason I don't let my boys take you right here and now is that there's something I need to know." Pa reached into the furnace behind me.
"Yeah?" I spat the blood away. "How about it's not nice to marry your sister?"
"Tell me—any of the cops gonna come looking for you?" he asked.
"Oh, eat me. No, wait—you actually might."
"Jared," Pa called over my head. Without another word of instruction, the shorter of the two sons charged forward and roughly grabbed my hair with one hand and the other underneath my chin—dirty nails dug into my flesh to hold me in place as his father returned with a glowing red poker.
"You think this is funny?" Pa said, waving the poker near my face. "You brought this down on my family, and you wanna play games? Alright, we'll play some games. Looks like we're gonna have a hunt tonight after all, boys," he announced, standing upright. "And you get to pick the animal. The boy or the cop?"
My entire body flushed with heat, but not from the fire behind me. When it was just me he wanted, that was fine, but it couldn't be them. Tori was out there; if they found her… I didn't even want to think about what they'd do. "Okay, wait—look, nobody's coming for me, alright?" I said. "It's just us."
Pa grimaced, unhappy with my answer, "You don't choose, I will," he said, shoving the poker into my shoulder.
Multiple layers of fabric did nothing to shield me from a flash of white-hot burning that seared my skin. A muffled groan of pain left my clenched teeth. "You son of a bitch!" I fumed.
"Next time, I'll take an eye." He held the tip of the poker inches from my pupil—so close waves of heat swiped away all the moisture in my eye. "Now, pick."
Even though I wanted to take the brunt of it for them, I couldn't stall very much longer. There was no doubt that Tori was smart enough to hide when they showed up, and even though Sam was probably weak, Tori would figure out some way to help him, and he'd have a better chance at outsmarting these idiots than anybody.
"Alright, the guy," I said. "Take the guy."
Jared roughly released his hold on me. Pa grabbed a chain from his neck, dangling the key to the barn's control panel out to his other son. "Lee, go do it," he said. "Don't let him out, though. Shoot him in the cage."
"What?" I panicked. Lee's mouth spread into a toothy grin as he happily retrieved a shotgun from a nearby storage case. "I thought you said you were gonna hunt him! You were gonna give him a chance!"
"And when you're done with the boy—shoot the bitch, too," Pa ordered. "Better clean this mess up before any more cops come running out here."
TPOV:
Dean should've been back by now. Searching that two-story nightmare of a house for a small key would take time, but it had gone on far too long. Right when I announced I'd go looking for him, twigs snapped hard and fast underneath on the other side of the thin barn walls. Through a cracked panel, I squinted, catching just enough of the woods through my eyelashes to see a figure too gangly to be Dean scurrying toward us. Placing a finger over my lips to instruct Sam and Deputy Hudak to remain quiet, I took off for the back of the barn and crouched behind a stack of old wooden crates. Enough light streamed through the door to illuminate the man entering the barn. At the control panel, he turned the key and hit a combination of buttons that unlocked the cage doors with heavy metal clunks.
Through the obstructing metal cylinders of the cages, I watched him step before Sam's and open the door. Air lodged in my throat as he lifted and cocked a rifle. With all the force I could muster to ensure it made the most noise possible, I hit the stack of creates with my shoulder, sending them clattering to the ground just as a bullet rang from the gun. Sam tackled the distracted man to the ground and out of view. While they grappled for the weapon, I hopped over the fallen crates, arriving just as Sam hit the man with the butt of the rifle.
"Are you okay?" I asked Sam as I helped him to his feet. "He didn't get you, did he?"
"No, I'm good," he replied, checking the rifle. "Damn," he huffed, tossing it aside with disappointment, "it's jammed."
With the cells unlocked, we let Deputy Hudak out. She stretched her legs and arms and wiped some blood off her face with her shirt. Between us, we counted a total of three men on the property and one little girl, according to the deputy. Providing we were correct, there were only two left to worry about now that we put the third—still unconscious—man into Sam's cage in case he woke. Granted, there was still the kid in play, but what damage could she really do?
DPOV:
Close enough to echo into the house was a jolting, deafening gunshot. My mind went straight to the worst possible scenario: he shot Sam. Any second now, there could be another gunshot, and that would be Kathleen gone. What if there was a third?
"You hurt them, I'll kill you, I swear, I will kill you all!" I hollered through gritted teeth.
Pa had a moment of clarity, one in which he appeared concerned as he stepped to the ajar door. "Lee!?" he called for his son twice and heard nothing in response. His world began to crumble because of this, but my outlook improved. Pa turned fast. "Jared, you come with me. Missy, you watch him, now."
Jared snagged two rifles from the lockbox and left the building with his father. As she was told, Missy loomed over me with her knife at the ready, the tip of it almost grazing my eye.
TPOV:
From our vantage point on the loft, Sam and I watched two men walk inside, their rifles at the ready. The leading man's rough, sandpaper voice shouted for Lee from the barn's doorway. When they disappeared from view, I knew they were nearing the cages, and it wouldn't be long before they found Lee. My eyes remained glued to the entrance, waiting for Dean's shadow to fan across the hay-covered ground.
"Jared, get the lights!" the older man ordered gruffly.
Jared balanced his rifle in one hand as he jogged to flip a large switch on the wall. Its hinges squealed, but nothing happened. "They must have blown the fuses!"
The panel opened and slammed shut with an echoing clank. "Dammit!"
Long before they'd arrived, I convinced myself that if the two remaining members of this family showed up and Dean wasn't right behind, then something was wrong. "Dean's not here," I said to Sam in a hushed voice.
"Go find him," Sam said without a second thought.
"Are you sure–" I asked, already standing.
He nodded, knowing what my head was at. "We'll be fine. Just be careful."
"You too."
Down a surprisingly quiet ladder and through piles of discarded hay, I snuck out the back exit of the barn and ventured through the tall grass and winding trees to the house. Halfway down the steps into the basement of the foreboding structure, a series of pops echoed from the barn, plunging my heart into my feet and locking my legs. Two options lay before me: return to the barn alone or continue into the house. The first choice was risky, at best. If they captured me, that would be the absolute end for all of us. Our best shot rested with the hope that Dean was okay—wherever he was—and that we could go together.
The interior state of the house was much worse than I imagined. Its smell was horrific—like dozens of cigarettes put out on a slab of rotting meat. Breathing only through my mouth was the solution until the thick air lingered heavily on the back of my tongue. The lighting in here was so poor whatever was in your way couldn't be seen until after you knocked into it. Ignoring the stomach-churning jars of god-knows-what and shards of bone fragments, I headed for a set of unstable steps leading to the next floor.
A few lights were on up here, though the blubs were covered in grime, casting gray shadows across the already dirty walls. Rounding a corner gave me a straight-shot view of the entire upper level, all the way to the furthest wall. Tired to a chair in front of a furnace, Dean sat—blood trailing from a wound on his forehead. There wasn't much time to feel relieved about him being alive because he wasn't alone. The very last thing I expected was the little girl, whose wellbeing Deputy Hudak had been concerned for, standing beside him with a small knife waving in his face. Dean saw me but expertly hid his shock to keep the girl in the dark.
Several of the floorboards were lifting, acting as an alarm. I did my best to avoid those while creeping further in. What I was about to do wouldn't be my first choice, but right now, it was my only choice. She was just a kid and maybe didn't know any better. However, there weren't many other ways out of this mess. Passing by the kitchen, I snagged an old stray pan sitting on the edge of the counter and weighed it in my hands. If I went two seconds too fast or one second too slow, it could end badly.
Close enough to make my move, she suddenly turned and shrieked, wildly swiping the blade around. With a hop out of the way and a swing of the pan that connected to the side of her head in a clang, she fell to the ground unconscious.
"Holy shit," Dean breathed, looking up at me with wide eyes. "You knocked that kid out cold."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologized sarcastically, "she tried to stab us!" Stealing the blade from her thin hand and using it to cut Dean free. "What did they do to you?"
"Eh, nothing I can't handle," he replied, wincing when he shrugged his left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, there was a hole straight through his clothes. I pulled the shirts aside, revealing a fresh burn. Before either of us could say any more, sticky, clopping footsteps rushed toward us.
At the mouth of the hall, Sam appeared and skitted to a stop—mouth agape at the scene before him. "What the–"
Dean pointed my way. "She did it."
"I didn't have a choice!" I defended, tossing the severed ropes to the ground.
"Hey," Dean held up his hands in surrender and stood, "I'm not saying it was wrong, just that, you know… it wasn't me."
"Come on," I huffed, nodding to the girl. We brought her to the nearest closet and locked it with a chair butted underneath the doorknob so she couldn't get out and harm anyone else. Given her age, maybe she could be helped—unlike the rest of her family. They all deserved to rot in prison, caged for the rest of their lives like they'd done to all their victims.
Outside, we met with Deputy Hudak. "Where's the girl?" she asked.
"Locked her in a closet," Dean replied. "What about the Dad?"
Hudak paused and looked down. "Shot. Trying to escape," she said. Shame threaded through her eyes, but she shouldn't have a reason to feel so sorry. Perhaps it was dark of me to think justice was served in some way. Then again, what was worse? What they'd done, or their punishment?
We managed to find some clean bandages and alcohol to patch Dean up until we could get somewhere safer. Providing we could go anywhere else at all. Deputy Hudak's radio announced backup en route to this location. It was only a matter of time now before they arrived, and months of keeping a low profile would all be shot to hell.
"So, state police and the FBI are gonna be here within the hour," Hudak announced. "They're gonna wanna talk to you…" she trailed off. "I suggest that you're long gone by then."
"Wait, really?" I asked. Once again, she shocked me by letting us slip by.
"Thanks." Dean smiled. "Hey, listen, I don't mean to press our luck, but we're kind of in the middle of nowhere. Think we could catch a ride?" I nudged Dean's side with my elbow and gave him a wide-eyed glance. "What?" he asked. "It's worth a shot."
Deputy Hudak's eyebrow cocked. "Start walking," she said. "Duck if you see a squad car."
"Sounds like a plan," I said, threading my arm through Dean's and pulling him close. "Thank you. Again."
About to drag Dean away before we could get into any more trouble, he pulled me back a bit, turning to Kathleen. "Listen, I'm sorry about your brother," he said.
"Thank you," she replied tautly. Being in her field and seeing what she did every day made her quick to cap her emotions. "It was really hard not knowing what happened to him. I thought it would be easier once I knew the truth—but it isn't really." Hudak took in a staggered breath. "Anyway, you should go."
Although it felt wrong to leave her in such a vulnerable state on this massive property in the middle of nowhere, it was about time we parted ways. With Sam and Dean on either side of me, we walked down a dirt path that hopefully led to the main road.
"Never do that again," Dean said, staring straight ahead.
Sam glanced down at me, raising a questioning eyebrow before looking back at his brother. "Do what?" he asked.
"Go missing like that."
Sam smiled knowingly. "You were worried about me."
"All I'm saying is, you vanish like that again, we're not looking for you," Dean said, letting his stubbornness show.
"Sure, you won't." Sam allowed a beat of silence to go by before speaking again. "Sorry the night didn't work out like you planned," he apologized, slightly disguised. It's the thought that counts, I suppose.
"Oh, no, we're still getting that damn room," Dean insisted vehemently. "Not coming out for a fucking week."
"I'm down for that," I laughed.
"Well, you need the rest after getting sidelined by a thirteen-year-old girl," Sam teased.
Dean squinted at him in the setting sun. "Shut up."
"Just sayin', gettin' rusty there, kiddo," Sam quoted his big brother. This time, Dean chuckled. "At least one of you was able to take the kid out."
"Wow, you're on a roll, aren't you?" I joked, bumping my shoulder into his arm. "It was necessary! If I didn't do that, he," I gestured to Dean, "might be missing an eye right now."
"You couldn't have just, I don't know, shoved her?"
"How about this?" I challenged. "Next time, you can handle the homicidal teenager."
"Oh, no," Dean interjected. "No, next time. No more crazy people," he said. "It's monsters or nothing."
At first, we were hesitant to leave Sam alone, but he insisted he'd be alright, and Dean made him promise he wouldn't leave the room he got across from the hall from ours without one of us tagging along. Later that night, after a shower, we sat at the table, facing each other with our knees interlocked while I tended to the wounds on Dean's face—more importantly, the burn on his chest. It left a charred mark on his inflamed skin.
All in all, it could've been worse. If he'd been wearing one layer less, we'd be taking a trip to the hospital right now. That didn't stop my mind from drifting back to that property and what lay on its grounds. All those remains of dozens upon dozens of tortured souls and that family's disgusting trophies and boasting photographs. It made me sick. Generally, hunting was straightforward—simple. Monsters were one thing; humans were another. But more often than any of us would like to admit, even after everything we experienced, they overlapped and blurred into a twisted, mangled, unrecognizable thing.
However, the line was clearly cut and drawn by people like the man before me. Dean's actions and the unwavering way he cared were testaments to the real meaning of being human. It was then that something left unsaid occurred to me. "Thank you," I told him, opening a fresh gauze.
Dean ripped another piece of medical tape and stuck it to the table's edge with the others. "What for?" he asked, confused.
"For being so strong these past couple of days. I mean, you were freaking out, too, but you held it together for me and Sam." I gently held the pad to his burn and taped it down. "I don't know how you do that."
In fact, I did know how he did it. Dean was used to facing a lot of adversity without crumbling. He was always left in charge—to watch out for us. Whenever John strolled back in, and spats would begin between him and Sam, Dean was the one to break it up. Eventually, when I got my bearings in the family, I helped him with everything, but for the longest time, it was just him with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Ah," he shrugged his uninjured shoulder, "it's no big deal."
"It's a very big deal, Dean," I insisted, peering up at him from my task. "I don't know where we'd be without you." Especially now, in this search of John—for answers—Dean was the glue that held us all together.
Over the years, he had gotten less and less shy about receiving praise from me, but the tips of his ears still turned red. "You would've figured something out," Dean deflected, using the roll in his hands as a distraction, twirling it around his finger.
"Yeah, maybe, but not like you. Would you just–" I huffed a laugh and sat upright, "Would you just take the compliment?"
"Yeah," he laughed and sobered up. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," I said with a smile, leaning forward to close the gap and kiss him; his lips were warm and soft, in stark contrast to the cold and callous night we had. It was meant to be a quick peck but feverishly dissolved into his fingers tangling in my hair and my nails digging into his shoulder blades as he carried me to the bed. Unlike the last two nights, which went by in a nervous, jittery blink of an eye, tonight dragged out in the best way possible. It was as if time had slowed down just for us. There was no need to hurry or rush.
As the night wore on, we fell asleep in each other's arms, exhausted but content. And if this job solidified anything, it was that—no matter the situation—despite all the darkness and horror in the world, comfort came in knowing we were the other's safe space. In here, none of that mattered; it couldn't touch us.
Thank you for reading! Here's my dilemma. Depending on whether the FFN staff fixes the issues with this site, I may begin posting solely on AO3. Currently, I'm not receiving email notifications, and my story stats haven't been updated since September. If any of you only read on here and don't want me to transfer, then please let me know, and I will stay.
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