Please note: I do not generally provide trigger warnings. However, the topic of menstruation is heavily used in this chapter. Body horror is present.
Neon lights caught the attention of ocean eyes. "Pabst Blue Ribbon." The signage flickered navy, stretching over the thinly-filled dive bar. "That thing's gonna give someone convulsions," Allie contorted her face to that of displeasure. So often they found themselves in establishments that rarely held any sort of… class. The setting wasn't necessarily a major problem, and really her disposition could be chopped up to an unfortunate visit from Aunt Flow. Crabby would be putting it mildly.
Aside from that, the location smelt like a hundred cigarettes ashed out into a scotch — and sweat. A shy nose twitched from the stench.
Dean's lips folded over the whisky in his cup; the actual sip was postponed as he listened to her talk. Complain, complain. For whatever reason, his female companion appeared to be in a rather bitchy mood. Kind of a rarity, actually. No sarcasm joined her statement; instead, she just looked pissed off. "Someone's eaten a bowl of stale cheerios; what's with the sour milk attitude?"
She rolled her eyes, face flashing to him quickly. To lie, or not to lie? Being self-aware didn't always mean taking the moment into consideration. Then again, they were trying to have a decent night amongst the crowd of normies, and perhaps her shitty mood was cramping the style.
A soft sigh. "It's... you know… I..." Am childbearing age? My uterus feels like it's about to implode? The slightest rub of my bra and my breasts feel like they're personally offended? As if he wanted to hear about any of her womanly ailments.
"Shark week," Allie muttered out. And she was certainly chumming up the waters! Awkward to be called out for it. "Sorry,"
The proclamation hit him like a dart in the face. Fuck, what was he supposed to say to that? Now he was an asshole for even asking in the first place; no doubt she wanted to lay down on a non-stained bed and get a bit of rest. They… Well, he and Sam never faced such issues. Hell, his greatest monthly concern was if he remembered to keep a few rubbers in the wallet for impulsive midnight experiences of bliss.
Tonight was not shaping to have that outcome.
"You need…" He trailed off awkwardly. "Do you want me to..." Holy shit, what was he even trying to say? No great words came to mind, and Dean ended up fiddling with his hair, rubbing the back of his head—which probably added to his ineffectiveness.
Sam cut him off quickly, joining Allie's side with a sangria from the bar. "Do you need us to stop for anything?" Disappearance or not, he knew that the hunt wouldn't exactly be easy if one of them had to suffer. Jess's monthly situation normally had him filling a water bottle from a kettle and laying beside her whilst he studied. Her pain, at times, seemed never-ending.
The drink was taken from him, and Allie gave a soft smile. "No, no. This is good. More of this!" Red lips moved around the straw. Instant relief. Not from the pain, towards her crap mood. It's not as though they could get absolutely slammed. They were there to discuss a local missing person, but at least the alcohol could take a small amount of the edge off and let her relax. Her shoulders eased in time with the depressant. Funny how that worked.
Thankful for Sam's arrival, Dean nodded. "Pool table's open," across the room. His concentrated gaze fell on it as soon as they entered the bar. Lately, his pockets felt lighter—tthat meant a hustle or two was near in their future.
Forest irises turned back and took in Allie's cradled body. The way her hand absently stroked at her own stomach, her posture impacted, from what he could assume, was pain. Talk was cheap; pool was money. He taught Alls a fortitude of skills. Maybe a new one would offer a distraction?
Without speaking, he moved to the stick rack, listening to the sound of Allie and Sam following close behind. Two cues were lifted out, and Dean sauntered back to join them. Sam's hand reached up, but Dean stopped alongside his battlefield blonde instead. "Let's hope you ain't a bad shot right off the bat." His mouth curled into a teasing smirk.
"Only losers prey on the weak and the injured, Winchester." Sarcasm fell from her, tinted by a playful egging on of his challenge, and Allie swiped the cue from him. A mode of stating 'you're on' in her own way. Back at their beginning, being a bad shot was a nerve, a road less travelled by Dean and Bobby. It frustrated her to no end! Now the training sat as an inside joke between them. She'd gotten better—a lot better. Enough that sometimes she even hit the head (when the moment called for it).
Dean took enthusiastic flight, curving around the table with speed to rack up the balls. So far, so good! "I'll remember that when I'm kicking your toned ass."
She gave a wicked smile. "Someone's fantasies are sneaking into reality, not very intimidating to compliment your opponent." Allie took another drink of her wine and placed it on a stained shelf behind them.
"Now I know why you're so shitty at poker." Easily persuaded. She focused on the compliment? Dean did do it. The offer kind of… came out, no primary thought behind it. Son of a bitch, her ass was good though. Perky, full; you could see it from the front just between her thighs. Bad time to think too much about that, but the pad of his thumb stroked against the head of his cue.
"So rude!" Allie leaned forward, lips pursed. "I think I should teach you some manners, Casanova." All anger drained from her; focus instead taken by the balls that sat in a triangle on the table.
"I resent that." Dean took the triangle away, releasing the balls from their confines. "I'm a peach." The ripest one, pulled from the juiciest tree. Okay, alcohol combined with the idea of hustling a few bills out of the locals could have been to blame for his slight overconfidence. Gearing up meant playing specific parts.
"Oh yeah, you're the prized pig at the state fair!" Allie's voice took on a fake southern belle accent. "I just wanna pinch your cute lil' cheeks." The tiny cube that held a dense blue powder was rubbed lovingly over the tip of her cue. What did it do? Not a damn clue by her, but she saw others do it—it must've been good for something. Maybe like a rock climber and chalk for their hands.
"Which ones?" He smirked and strode up closer to her, leaning against the table with nonchalance. "Don't get too frisky with me, Sunshine; we're in public," and to think that seconds ago the best blonde in the joint was throwing a fit. A few lighthearted sentences and the familiar rendezvous of banter waltzed right back in.
"Just for that—you get to break." His fingers reached out to nudge her closer to the far end of the table. "See the one at the front? Hit that."
Allie bent at the hips, hunched over and ripe with anticipation. Eyes focused on the target in front of her. A centering breath presented itself, and the cue thrust forward, hitting white, which collided with the stack.
Dean watched as the balls dispersed. Not a bad hit, but pretty soft, and she hit them directly on. Lesson 1: Every hit counts. The other person, no matter how bad, could always hit a lucky strike. There was no way to accurately anticipate that, which meant being prepared at every turn and finding weaknesses. Billiards was a numbers game at heart. Consistency, focus, and mental and physical awareness at all times.
"Back up," he instructed and began to rerack the balls. No point in moving on from the basics without making a half-decent break. None of them were sunk; no loss—no win either. "We're going to try again, and this time don't do what will be anticipated. Put some thought into it."
Bowed legs walked to her, and Dean tentatively reached out to reposition her. At her reluctant acceptance, he twisted her slightly to the side. Not enough to seem much of a difference, but enough to have greater control. "You have to hit the head ball, and you need to cover it as much as possible. Doesn't mean you can't adjust, just need to focus." He breathed against her neck while they leaned down together. The smallest movement made all the difference.
His hand covered hers, gently coaxing the stick back and forth. "Like shooting."
Allie's skin sizzled from the proximity. Her heels tucked into the ground beneath her. The closer they grew emotionally, the more physical touch weaselled its annoying hooks in. Rather than announce the unsatisfactory position, Allie swallowed and kept the tensity of the moment under lock and key. Her unsettled chest flexed, as if to force the sense of intrusion away by mere shivering.
"Okay, okay. Let me do it, God." She wiggled within his grasp. "So bossy," A token smile took over, lips twitching at the sides from passive fright that brewed beneath the surface.
Sam watched, keen to the sight of their public act of training. His brows inched closer together. The glass beer bottle concealed by his large palm was brought up for a sip. Interesting. During his initial interpretation of their relationship upon his return from Stanford, he assumed they spent much of their time like himself and Dean used to. Roadhouses, bars, and skeevy locations in general. Hell, the two of them had fake ID's by the time they were fifteen, and most locations that they found themselves in didn't exactly question things when an Andrew Jackson or two was supplied.
Frankly, he was under the interpretation that Allie already knew the hustling basics. Sam's smile faded behind the tip of the bottle, obscured by glass and an underlying thought of not ruining the scene before him.
Sure, they experienced their own loss of normalcy, but he never saw it so blatantly in someone else. Here they were, training her to lose her humanity. The tricks of the trade that he vehemently once desired to get out of.
"Dean—" He began, then rapidly cut himself off. No point in throwing up a fuss over it. They'd end up arguing, and that would catch Allie in the middle when she already wasn't feeling well. So he stifled himself, pretending to look at the clock on the adjacent wall with a nod. "The case."
Dean's head tilted upwards, one arm still caging Allie against the pool table. "Sammy, it'll take 10 minutes, tops." The older Winchester dismissed him at first, until he took in Sam's stance and apparent anxiety. What? Over the case? A few disappearances, and by the witnesses testimony, just didn't look like their kind of gig. Kidnapping in a leftover town? Wouldn't be the first. Yeah, it sucked ass; wasn't a hunting sorta job though.
With a sigh, he released his grip from the table and stance from behind her, standing straight up. "Alright. Next time, Blondie. Grab a seat, Sam."
Swinging yellow. The orb attached by a chain to the ceiling pulsed, its image blurred and hazy. Disorientation. Heavy eyelids fell and reopened. Shaggy brunette locks caught Allie's limited attention from a few feet away. "Smmm…" She tried, head swaying from side to side until understanding came to her. "Sam," she croaked out again, this time more defined than the last.
The next noise that erupted from her? A fearful yelp. Large hands gripped around her ankle, fingernails carving into the lateral malleolus, then yanking. The sole of her foot was forced up against cold metal bars, and a mere second later, blistering pain radiated through every nerve that splayed and danced in her. Scathing hot iron pressed into the arch of her left foot.
Allie's hand swiped out to grab anything close, clutching to one of the cage bars that sat behind her, and a piercing scream echoed. The scent of her own broiling skin permeated into the air. "Stop, stop!" The nerves in her leg instinctively attempted to tear her limb free, only to be met by an intensified hold while another hand reached in to force the top of her foot down, grinding the branding tool further into the underside.
The sheer density of her screams woke him. "Get off of her!" Sam's voice boomed, hand shooting out at the intruder— to watch her ankle fall and their captor step away. No retaliation was offered, not a word. Heavy boots grew distant and, after a few steps, disappeared behind the sound of a door closing.
"Allie?" He crawled to her, watching as she slumped back with her hand over her mouth. "What did he do to you?"
Her chest heaved, lungs filling and emptying rapidly from the consuming fire at her extremity. Unable to speak, a whimper licked behind her cupped palm as squeezed eyes tried to fight off approaching tears. Her other hand shook while making its way down her body… her body…
Large amounts of skin were exposed. Her entire lower half laid bare aside from light blue panties. The lace that fell at her hips and upper thighs was tinged brown from dirt and ripped, ruining the once elegant pattern.
She propped her own ankle up in the air to show the burn in the dim lighting that continued to swing gently above their heads.
The noting of a sizable 'F' sat in front of him. The flesh stood white and irate, pink tinge at the raised edges. "Okay, It's alright. We'll put something on it," His eyes swept over their space — nothing supported them. They were sitting on a pounded foundation with no water and no tools at their disposal.
Sam's fingers instinctively went to the bottom of his shirt and tearing ensued, filling their metal holding. "Take a breath. I'm going to wrap it," With that, he started working. The dark strip of his t-shirt acted as a barrier, at least for the time being.
"I'm supposed to be the nurse," Allie murmured out, head falling back to rest against the cage as he tended to her throbbing injury. "Are you hurt?"
"Yeah, well, professionals need professionals sometimes too, right?" Despite the tame continuing of their conversation, his mind raced with thoughts of how to get out. They weren't the only cage. Another sat across from them, and some farm tools sat on shelves near a large work bench, though thus far they were inaccessible.
"Not hurt," He replied in a calm tone. He'd normally ask the same back but… Allie already drew the short end of the stick.
Her head tilted up to stare at the rebar ceiling. Theoretically, it may have been a few hours since their capture. Both of them were knocked out and from their grogginess, probably not naturally. "Are you nauseous?"
Sam returned to his original position, situated along the back wall of their cage with his knees held up. "Stomach's not exactly having a great time at the moment," he confirmed. Not that it was their greatest challenge. But yeah, he could keel over and dump out dinner.
She sighed and gave a slight nod. "I think they drugged us." If they were knocked out from force, the sheer time period of moving them into the cage would have caused substantial brain damage. By the looks of things, they were farmers? Hooks and chains hung from a nearby pole — plus the fucking branding iron. Top things to watch: Respiratory depression, cardiovascular effects. If they were awake, they were probably in the clear.
"How's your breathing? Any chest pain?"
He shook his head.
"Let me know if you feel lightheaded." Not that much could be done even if he did. Maybe some breathing exercises? Hard to know what they would have been given in the first place. Most pharmaceuticals with the ability to knock out a 6-foot-4 man were kept under lock and key. Then again, farmers had access to ulterior motives if they kept livestock. Horses, cattle. All large animals took veterinary drugs.
Their cellmate across the way offered some back and forth, nothing crucial or important to their leaving. Allie watched as Sam attempted to find a way out, reaching to the top of the cage which caused something to fall. A metal bracket.
She leaned forward to see it. "Sam, Sam!" The metal was pointed to before Jenkins, the other captive from their missing person investigation, asked about it—before watching while the door to his own trap swung open.
JENKINS: What is it?
SAM: It's a bracket.
JENKINS: Well, thank God, a bracket. Now we've got 'em, huh? Must've been short. Maybe you knocked somethin' loose.
SAM: I think you should get back in there, Jenkins.
JENKINS: What?
SAM: This isn't right.
JENKINS: Don't you wanna get out of here?
SAM: Yeah. But that was too easy.
JENKINS: Look, I'm gonna get out of here, and I'm gonna send help, okay, don't worry.
SAM: No, I'm serious. Jenkins—this might be a trap.
JENKINS: Bye, Sammy.
SAM: Jenkins!
In a flash their newfound teammate was gone. On some level she had hoped the three of them could have worked together. Now the door to his cage simply slammed back and forth, hitting its empty room with a metal clang.
Silence fell over them, both Allie and Sam deep in thought on how to get out — and the potential fate of Jenkins.
Then came the elephant in the room. Sam still had his shirt, his jeans, and his shoes. Her full form was damn near on display! All that kept her lady parts from breezing in the wind was a matching underwear set. Great day to wear a push-up! Her breasts felt like they were up to her neck.
"I'm naked," Well, almost. Close enough. They certainly wouldn't be allowed to air the scene on daytime television.
Sam bristled at that. Not in irritation, mainly in anxiety. He kept his gaze off of her, wanting to keep sweet and avoid making her uncomfortable. "Yeah," he offered with sympathy. "I… I know." And he hadn't brought it up for a reason.
"No, Sam. I mean, I'm naked—and you aren't," Which pointed to an uneven playing field. The man in the cage across from them was also fully clothed (to her own knowledge). All thought processes led to one outcome — she was female. The singular female.
Aside from the unspoken knowledge of what that probably meant for her, another note turned over in her mind. Objectively, their environment didn't lend itself to the best hygiene practices.
"I'm not going to let them do what you're thinking, Allie," Sam shot up, now alert from the theory she alluded to. What did monstrous men generally do with women? Yeah, that. Not for one second would that outcome even be entertained. They had each other. Bad idea for their captors to hold them together.
His legs widened, knees bowed to present safety. "Come here," His tone turned to a quiet hush, hoping to keep their conversation private and prevent a possible separation.
Practically the worst thing imaginable (other than their current predicament) intimacy. She was half naked and vulnerable. Desperate times called for proactive reactions — Allie knew that, but her body hesitated to take the offering. Survival. All that mattered was survival, even if the acceptance of being touched was a thorned rose.
So she slid over to him, careful of the binding around her foot. Her hips rested at the apex of his groin. His legs encased her, damn near rising to her mid chest. Yes, Sam was always large. The position made their difference in size unavoidable, though. He had more than a foot over her and a much larger, stronger build.
"...Thanks," 'Uncomfortable' put things lightly. He wasn't touching her, at least not in any sexual or aggressive manner - yet her skin felt as though it fileted at the idea of being put in such a compromised position. Her index finger and thumb rubbed at the bra strap on her left shoulder. Her other arm swam in the air before folding around her own legs and pulling them up to sit at her chest, hunched over in a subconscious effort to conceal herself.
"Don't worry," He took another glance around the room, noticing the blinking of a red light in the upper corner - near the ceiling. It sat nearly perfectly in the line where the two walls met.
Blink.
He counted between the flashes. One second, two seconds, three sec-
Blink —
"It's not just that I'm… exposed," Allie confessed. Another issue? Womanly woes. "Do you know what toxic shock syndrome is?" Probably not the sexiest, funnest topic — but, the truth was the truth and they had more to worry about on top of their growing pile of absurd crap.
Still focused on the blinks and making out the reason, Sam replied. "No, what is it?"
"It's a condition caused by bacterial infections. Staph, Strep…" She started and her arm relaxed, now focused on another issue at hand. "In the 80's and 90's there was this craze about women… using tampons and getting it. Nasty bitch too. I mean, when someone actually got it."
Although rare, the takeaway was quite simple. She was menstruating, and they'd been dragged through all kinds of crap by the evidence of her panties. They arrived at the bar around…9 o'clock? She changed over at approximately 6. That brought them to 3 hours. Then, they stayed for about 2 hours at the bar, or so. So 5 hours, then they were presumably taken. Who knew how long it took to arrive? Not to mention how long they'd most likely been unconscious, and they had been awake for roughly an hour and a half.
Plus, the way it sat inside of her? Well, that usually meant time for the next round.
They were most likely well over 8 hours.
Now onto the nitty-gritty of the gory details. "If you leave products up there for too long, the bacteria can fester."
Sam's gaze adjusted from the red dot in the corner, now acutely aware of just how dire their situation was. "How long is too long?"
"Sometimes... 12 hours before the symptoms kick in." And it wasn't as though studies were performed on people left in dimly lit, archaic cages. The smell of rust and damp hay gave away the nature of their setting.
Women's health prior to the 1900's saw heightened mortality rates. Childbed fever and lack of overall hygiene during reproduction phases led to sepsis, among other toxins. Unfortunately, their environment was cause for concern. No doubt there would be a lack of medical intervention if she began to get sick. Medical intelligence acted as a double-edged sword.
His face hardened. "Symptoms?" He pressed on, right knee, now vibrating discreetly from nerves.
"Yeah, leads to fever, chills, dizziness, disorientation…" A pause, and Allie became quieter. "Liver failure, kidney failure." In a relatively short period of time. Short enough that an invisible clock now hung over her head.
She was already in the negatives.
Taking it out would open her up to further infection due to their damp, dingy surroundings. Leaving it in could allow any already present microbes to grow and migrate to her uterus, before catching the death train into her bloodstream.
"I mean, it's not exactly sterile in here — and I… don't have many preventable layers." Hell, the stubble of her recently shaved pubes were just barely poking out of the thin barrier that concealed her most sensitive areas from the conditions around them.
The primary door flew open, causing both of them to stop and quiet down. "Times up, gorgeous," A dark voice came through the moonlight, and as he approached, Allie slinked closer to Sam.
"Aw, 'don't'chu worry', sweet thing." The stranger mocked Sam's prior placation, indicating that the two of them were being watched. "We'll give ya' a fightin' chance!" He grinned and tapped the bars with a Remington. "We just like a little bit of entertainment." Brown eyes darkened, and his head roamed appreciatively over her taut body.
Sam's arms flexed around her protectively. "She's not alone in here." He growled openly, chin tilting down to bring Allie's forehead underneath it, tucking her into him.
"That ain't no problem, not here for both of 'ou. Jus' the girl." The stranger's southern accent came through, blazingly cruel in his tone, and he pressed a button from his hand, the cage door opening with a particular mechanism. He was quick to grab her exposed calf, pulling her hard against the cement floor.
Allie yelped while the foundation burned at the first layer of skin on her ass, rubbing it away from the sudden tug. "Sam!" She cried, turning her face back just in time to watch as their kidnapper forced a taser to his arm. Convulsions began, but Sam still tried to hold his arms out to her before he slumped back against the cage.
"Fuck you!" Her other leg kicked ferociously, and Allie shook wildly within his grasp. Her whole body thrashed from side to side until the rebar, metal, and iron passed by. In a last-ditch effort, she reached out for the DIY rectangular bars of her previous jail, gripping until the haphazardly cut material sliced into her palms. Her blood dripped across the rust, and in one last tug, he forced her hands to let go, ripping the skin across her embedded joints into flaps.
SCENE 3: Unfinished
Sharp twigs struck into her feet, whipping carelessly against her to the tune of her running frantically through the thin forest. With each step, her heart sank deeper into the acid of her stomach, as if it were to be dissolved by her anxiety-induced nausea. Each organ blended together in a souply concoction of one outlook: kill or be killed. The hunter, now the hunted. Cuts lay across her belly and biceps, legs thorn-ridden from bushes busted through. Birds sang a funeral tune—the dying song of her transgressions.
Buzzing.
Her movements ceased while the noise intensified. Soon black flies nestled around her ears, until Allie's head shook and her arm sprang up to shoo the insects away. Turn to the side and the sight — and smell? — overwhelming.
Jenkins' body was thrust in an unnatural position, limbs resting propped behind his back from manually cracked joints that had left the sockets. A human — cut open and discarded like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Upon closer inspection, his flesh was scraped away in various areas. Large chunks from the pectorals, thighs, ribs. Oxidized red meat of the long pig variety turned dark brown. She took hold of a nearby stick, using the makeshift tool for a closer look. Jenkins' corpse was raised up, limply falling onto his stomach.
The psoas major was sliced out, running clean down from the spine to the leg.
Her breathing stalled for a short moment, and a gulp swam in her esophagus. "Shit…" It made no sense for the body to be left. The killers were obviously planning for a big ol' family roast, why leave the gravy base to sit in the dirt and rot?
She stopped.
The distant sound of cracking twigs persuaded her to tokenize a nearby tree. Sturdy base, decent branches, firm stature. The leaves looked dense enough to conceal one petite appearance. The choices were to keep running, or remain hidden and wait things out.
Skilled hands approached the well-worn bark, and Allie thrust a split palm up, wincing once it curved around a thick branch and poked into the exposed tear. Silently breathing through the pain with her chest flexing and teeth gnawing down on her own lip to avoid added noise, Allie pulled herself up.
Old habits die hard. Competitive cheerleading and gymnastics gave the retired champion a persistent edge. Adept at climbing and flexibility, years of reinforced upper body strength came into play. Her feet rested on the chips of bark pushing —
Up,
Up,
U—
Nearly at the midsection of the tree, Allie reached again. Her wrapped foot faltered, forcing the section of ripped t-shirt off of the burn. She instinctively tried to realign herself, managing to slip the underside of her now open brand directly on unforgiving wood. Her acidic stomach turned at the feeling, boiling up into her throat until the scream of pain came hurtling out. Blistered epidermis peeled off from the friction, causing Allie's leg to shake under her. "Mmmmph!" She pressed her face against the trunk, clouding her verbal trembles.
Hearing the sound near — there was no choice but to continue on. With calm breathing in and out, she heaved the rest of herself onto the destined branch and tucked in tight.
Two of them bounded out of the foliage. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..." One of them sang in a devious timbre. The other sported a wheelbarrow and bent down to retrieve Jenkins.
"She's not here. Probably ran off after that banshee shriek." He noted, tossing the desecrated corpse without care.
"Take 'im back. I want this one. I'll find 'er."
"But pop sai—" The other retorted.
"I damn well know what pop said! Take 'im back!"
Their combined voices hushed, transitioning into quiet acceptance. The family member with the wheelbarrow cruised off, leaving the other to stand beneath her tree.
Allie pressed a torn palm to her mouth in hopes of keeping herself concealed. The battlefield was uneven. He was larger, uninjured, held a gun. Therefore, hopping down and trying to fight wouldn't be optimal.
So — wait, distract, or run.
Waiting proved problematic. At any time, he could look up and witness her from directly below. They seemed trigger happy, high chance the situation would not work out in her favor — whether he shot instantly, or not.
Run? Practically out of the picture. On an injured foot? Easy pickings. She'd get a few steps in at most.
That left distraction. However, with no items at her disposal and limited daylight - things were looking grim.
Hours went by since her initial awakening with Sam in the cage. Hours…
Gross.
The thought came to her, albeit disgusting at best and ill-advised. Infection. Feminine hygiene products weren't exactly lying around, that meant the tampon from the previous night was still soaked inside of her.
Allie scrunched her eyes closed. Survival. All that mattered was survival. Distraction at all costs.
Two fingers slid silently down into torn light blue underwear. They fished for salvation, tugging gently at a cotton string until it slid out, and goddamnit — she had to stop from airing out a sigh of relief.
The scent of iron wafted to her, despite its familiarity - a shudder ran down her spine from the impending scenario.
It was held out from the side before falling down into the leaves in front of him. The noise of a brief plop cut the quiet.
He bent down, surveying the confusing item. Looked like… gauze? There was blood. Fuckin' rancid! Maybe from the other guy that they stabbed? But…
The echo of snapping sounded behind him, feet hitting holy ground.
Allie left no time for him to swing around. Her busted up hand shot up and out, gripping the back of his hair before smashing his head against the tree trunk. Leaves fell from shaken branches, and the blonde thrust his skull back, then rammed it into the bark once again.
Blood pooled from the front of his forehead. He made a choked gurgle and twitched, going slack in her arms. His sordid body was released instantly, falling to the ground, where his eyes spasmed up at her.
A bottle rolled out of his jacket, tapping against her big toe. She bent down, picking it up graciously.
XYLAZINE
"Cute," Allie grimaced. "Can't make it too fair, right?" She leaned, crouching to inspect him at knee level. "Still need to be top dog, even if it means performance enhancers." A serial killer cannibal on steroids. How apt.
The gun sat alongside his jerking body. "You know, I could be real humane about this." The drug would offer nice quiet sleepy-time as he faded off into a jail cell, or death, depending on the dosage. But with violent crimes, came violent ends.
It felt good in angry hands. The rifle gave power in its weight. "But I sure do like a revenge story, and you wanted entertainment, didn't you?"
His inability to reply brought a certain… enjoyment to her. The barrel of the Remington raised up high. Allie took one last look at her outfit, one they chose for their own pleasure. Who knew how many other women didn't make it out? Instead the men watched them, hunted them, killed them, in all probability sexually assaulted them, and then ate them.
A shot rang out through the woods.
Crimson seeped out through his neck. The attacker gargled out in his dying moment - a clear indication of pain.
She raised her chin up. Guilt swirled with satisfaction in her settled gut. "Sorry, I'm still in training." Venom dripped from the wry words and Allie watched as he took his final breath.
Things fell silent amongst the trees. Total rest took place. She stood, aware of the surroundings. Allie's fingers twitched against the warmed metal of the rifle.
Rustling sounded from the right.
The blonde whirled, feet shifting to protect the burn that pulsed under her foot. Gun at the ready, she was met with Dean's face staring back at her. A valley of dried blood ran from his scalp to his neck. "Dean?" Honey hairs were caked with dirt against her cheek. The small cuts that split parts of her body must have created a harrowing vision for him, considering her unkempt nudity and vengeful expression.
"Give me your jacket." Barely giving him time to speak, she was already thinking about covering up - intent on defeating darkly lustful gazes.
Dean's eyes widened at the sight of her, taking in the cuts and dirt marring her exposed skin. "Jesus Christ," he breathed out, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her. "What the hell happened? Sam said they took you." Concern etched his features as he scanned the surroundings to ensure that no further killers were popping out to give a fucked up greeting.
As Allie took the jacket, his sight fell to the rifle in her hands and the lifeless body at her feet. "You okay? Did this bastard…?" He trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. The idea of someone hurting her, especially in that way, made his blood boil.
Allie's fingers wrapped around the collar of the jacket, bringing it around her body and zipping the damn thing up to cover her bloodied tits. "They didn't do anything," she assured him in a tight tone. Any man that tried would surely face the same demise. Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn, as they said. "Didn't have a chance," She sneered impulsively at the idea of being used, before being carved to death. Obviously not the family's first taking of a woman, and that killed her on the inside. Pain must have lived in that forest long before she experienced it.
She looked down at the rifle in her hands, then back at Dean. "I did what I had to do," Her eyes met his, pale and hardened - depersonalized from the act committed. Murder. Plain and simple, right? The bottle of animal sedative hid behind her back subconsciously. There was a certain… absolution in destruction. Greedy hands deserved punishment, and God was no judge. His ivory tower never saved her. The act of revenge did. More than once.
The aim was never for his head.
Her answer placated him, and Dean stepped forward, nodding in understanding. Their eyes met. Out of all the times they'd found themselves in less than ideal situations, never had he witnessed such… openness and numbness from her. Cold as ice, twice as pretty — even caked in mud, and God knew what else. "We need to get back to Sam and get you cleaned up, you're a mess." Dean purposely avoided the topic of the ill-fated corpse at their feet. His hand reached out to take hers, hell-bent on guiding her out of their gruesome surroundings and back to safety.
Her hand turned over, shaking slightly as the torn flesh flapped. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she felt the rustic slice throughout her arm. "I can't," she spoke out, realizing that touching him would cause more physical pain. "And they fucked up my foot," Allie muttered in thinly-veiled hate. Perhaps Sam already told him that, but now the top layer of skin was gone, and who knows what could bury itself into the welted mess. By her luck, worms would slide directly beneath the injury. The very thought brought disgust forward.
She could feel it now. The nerves radiated up her thighs and into her chest. Feet held a host of sensitive ends, probably just about the worst fucking place on the human body to be autographed like a fucking ranch cow. Still, Allie refused to ask to be carried. What was she supposed to do? Hobble? Perform one legged hops out of the forest? "Go for Sam, I'll meet you at the car."
His hand returned to his side, flexing as it fought to extend towards her once again. "Like hell, I'm leaving you here!" He shook his head, stepping closer to her. "I'm getting you out of here, even if I have to carry your stubborn ass."
He scooped her up into his arms, avoiding her injured hands and careful as to not touch her foot. "You're not walking on that foot, Alls. Just shut up and let me do this, okay?" He gave her a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I'll never hear the end of it if I let you hobble out of here alone. Bobby'll put my ass in a blender."
As he started walking, he added – "And don't worry about Sam. That kid's like a bloodhound. He'll find us."
"Or, I'll hear him saying, 'So get this' like a Sam version of Marco Polo."
Allie's arms wrapped around Dean's neck, holding herself up as he carried her. "You know, I can walk," she grumbled, trying to hide the pain in her voice. "I'm not some damsel in distress." A wonder that anyone could think any different, considering her most recent kill and the fact that she was…
free bleeding.
That realization almost made her grimace. Being dirty was her last wish on earth, and letting the blood flow simply felt… unnatural. Aside from that, it's not as though she was doing it under her own control. She was in Dean's arms and in the worst condition. What should have been a minor obstacle became a large squick in her own mind. Never, never had she been so uncomfortable with her own body and its inner workings.
But the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against her cheek made her feel safe, even in the midst of the chaos. For a moment she could be calm and take some rest while he carried her. "If you tell anyone about this - I'll kill you," Allie teased and closed her eyes for a moment. Fuck her foot hurt, even without touching anything. "My hands need stitches." The admission came out sad, while her face turned up toward the sky and took in the barely present moon.
"And don't talk about being in a blender, these guys were doing it." Fucking vile. The tease sounded nothing like herself, too wrapped up in the notion of almost becoming a midnight feast for a group of morally corrupt rednecks.
Dean's face tucked down briefly to look at her; doe blue eyes were focused on the growing moonlight. The glowing crescent reflected in resting irises and an overwhelming need to protect her crashed over him, nearly bringing him to a halt in the middle of the woods. "Okay, Alls," he whispered, chest warming at the sight of his close friend relaxing into his chest and taking a quiet minute to let such a wound-tight guard down. All witty retorts left him. Instead, his arms flexed around her injured, pained appearance and brought her tight into him. "I'll shut up," and enjoy the brief clarity with her as the two of them made their way back to Sam.