i wanna watch you turn into a werewolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gorgeousnerd) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
firmament2009-05-04 08:34 pm
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2009-05-04 08:34 pm
Entry tags:
"A Beast in Repose" (1-3/?), Supernatural, PG-13, gen.
Title: A Beast in Repose
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: This part is a hard PG-13, and the rating may climb throughout the story.
Length: Multi-chaptered; parts one through three are about 7,000 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Gordon, Bobby other canon characters.
Spoilers: All of season two, especially "Bloodlust" (2x03) and "Heart" (2x17), and small elements of John Winchester's Journal (which isn't technically canon).
Summary: What if Lenore didn't think that letting Sam go was the best course of action? And what if Dean ended up in San Francisco with a different hunter at his back?
Notes: Ever since I first saw "Heart", I've been working on various drafts of this story, so this has been in the making for about a couple years now. I'm thinking, at this point, that it's going to be either five or six parts, and there'll be more extended notes at the end of the third part.
A Beast in Repose (part one)
Sam told Dean once, while they traveled on yet another lonely stretch of road, that San Francisco was famous for its fog. He'd taken Jess there for their first anniversary, Sam had said, and when he'd woken up the first morning, the world outside his window was covered with clouds. It was as if the city he'd seen the day before was gone, and there was nothing but their hotel room left.
Dean, of course, had told Sam that he'd been at that fruity school of his too long and paid attention to driving again.
But that's why Dean isn't surprised when Gordon parts ways with him at the Embarcadero and fades out of sight before he walks five feet. Gordon is no part of this, and neither are the buildings or the bay around him. The fog was Sam's San Francisco, and so it must be Dean's, too.
A hint of motion to the right, then nothing.
Dean takes a breath, draws the moisture into his mouth and lungs, and moves. He pads forward on the balls of his feet, the only noises from his rolling steps swallowed by the water-soaked air. His pulse pushes against the handle of his gun, and the exposed metal grows cold and warm when it shifts in his hand.
He senses the rumble before it happens, and he turns before he realizes it's gone.
A breeze stirs the dead air, tickles the slight points on the top of his head.
Sam.
Dean's ears ring, and when he opens his eyes, his arm points away from his old position. The smoke rising from the barrel of the gun joins the swirling gray around it.
The blood spilling from the fallen corpse stains the sidewalk underneath.
~
“I've been itching for a good hunt,” Gordon said. “Sure, I took a couple fangs here, but you know how it goes.”
“Which part?”
Gordon patted the dashboard with his free hand. “Getting from place to place. Wears on a man after a while.”
“What happened to enjoying the job?” Dean asked. He was tipsy enough to over-pronounce the words, but since he noticed the exaggerations, he knew that he wasn't anywhere near drunk. “That just a bunch of talk?”
“Hardly.” Gordon chuckled, his teeth reflecting the glow from the headlights. “But the miles feel longer when I know I haven't taken anything out for days.”
“Sure. ”
Dean could see Gordon shrug his shoulders out of the corner of his eyes. Gordon's clothing fit into the darkness well enough to make it difficult to look at him, and Dean wasn't in the mood to try, so he kept his eyes on the dividing lines in the road.
“Things have been a bit hit or miss on the vampire front. If I want anything else, no problem, but...well, it's not where my interest lies, if you get me.”
He did get him. Gordon had just talked about his sister in the bar, after all. If something like that had happened to Sam...
Before he could finish the thought, the car turned and hit a bump, and Dean straightened in his seat. When he spotted the Impala parked in the distance, he let out a breath, and he felt his shoulders loosen.
Dean bounced his hand on his leg a couple times, then spoke. “I'm gonna go get Sam.”
“Looked to me like he was done for the night.”
“No way I'm going nest-hunting without him.”
Gordon pulled up to the side of the motel a few paces from the Impala. “I'll get the maps.”
“Why? Let's just go.”
There was a pause, and for a moment, Dean tensed up.
“Might work better if we know where we've been before we go looking again,” Gordon said. He turned the ignition, and the engine went dead.
Dean pushed the door open. “I'll meet you inside.”
~
An echo of Sam is in Dean's head. She's just a girl, he says, the note of pain unmistakable. There has to be another way.
Maybe there is another way, but Dean neither knows of it nor cares to find out. The only reason he listens to the voice at all is because he doesn't ignore his brother. Not anymore.
He sinks down, staying on the balls of his feet. With the barrel of his gun, he nudges the girl's body a couple of times. She doesn't move. Dean notices the hole in the back of her head and the smears of pink on the pavement behind her. He nods to himself, his mouth set tight, and lets his eyes wander over the body.
It isn't until he sees it that he recognizes it.
With his free hand, he brushes her dark brown hair away from the back of her neck where a circular scar runs along the surface of her skin. The ridge is the pink of healing, still recent enough to look raw, but something that would have taken several months for a normal person to heal.
Too recent for her to be the cause of the murders.
Dean holds his breath and wills his heart to stop beating as loudly. And he wonders why the whistle of the breeze has a rattle underneath.
~
“So the west is covered?”
Dean nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. His lids were stinging, and if he could have ripped them off, he would have. “Up to the river.”
“That's where we should start,” Gordon said. “If you're up for it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair and parted the curtains with his thumb. “Night's not getting any longer.”
“I know.” Dean rubbed a finger over one of his eyebrows. “Sam should have been back by now.”
“Maybe he went for a walk. He seems like the walking type.”
“I guess.”
Gordon straightened. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“At the door.”
Dean pushed out of his chair. As he approached the door, he pulled his pearl-handled gun out of the back of his pants and cocked it. Gordon was already flattened against the wall. His own piece was nestled in one hand, and with the other, he curled his fingers around the door handle. He looked at Dean, then back at the door.
Dean raised his head slowly, listening. When he didn’t hear anything, he let it drop.
Gordon pulled the handle.
~
“Come out, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.
He wraps his hands around the butt of his gun and slides around in a circle. He keeps the body in the corner of his eye, partially to keep from tripping, and partially because corpses make great bait.
It isn't until the hair rises on the back of his neck that he catches a smell on the breeze. Something like the combination of wet dog and rotting flesh.
Dean throws himself to his left just as a blur passes to the right. It clips his shoulder, and he spins as he falls, landing hard on his stomach before he can try to catch himself. He starts to lose his grip on the gun, but his fingers stay latched around.
He throws his gun hand behind him and rolls with the motion just as a paw the size of his head hits the ground beside him. His leg contacts with what feels like a column of brick, but the way it shakes tells him that it's not.
Blood runs down Dean's arm. He howls as his vision blurs and whatever digs into his shoulder buries in further, scraping against bone.
The fog presses on his eyes. It’s all he can see now.
~
No one stood on the front step. That didn't stop Dean from sliding out of the room to the left, and the brush to his back told him that Gordon did the same to the right.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No...wait.”
Dean spun around, but Gordon was kneeling, his free hand pulling at string. A trickle of blood oozed past the edge of Gordon's boot, and Dean tilted his head enough to see that the string was holding a garbage bag closed.
“Looks like they left us a present,” Dean said. He craned his head upward and looked around. “They must know we're closing in.”
Gordon's hand dropped. “Dean.”
“What?” Maybe there was a tire tread or a print somewhere, maybe...
“Dean.”
His head snapped down just as Gordon rose and moved away from the bag.
~
“Motherfucker!”
Dean takes his gun out of his weakening hand and shoves it against the monster's belly. His pointer finger squeezes so hard that, for a minute, he thinks the trigger's going to slice through the joint.
A couple rounds go off, and the claws in Dean's shoulder relax.
They both drop to the ground, the beast on its side, and Dean on his knees. The shock of impact is so hard that his knees buckle, and he falls forward.
The creature whines, a high-pitched noise that scratches against eardrums. Dean grinds his teeth together and pulls himself slowly onto his elbow, clenching the gun as he jars his hurt shoulder.
That's when Dean gets a good view of the werewolf for the first time.
It isn't dead – it would revert to human form if that happened – but it can't move. It's shaped somewhat like a dog: long torso, four legs underneath. The back legs could belong to any canine, but the front legs are more human. The paws have five fingers with dagger-shaped tips, there's a bend where a wrist should be, and there's even an elbow.
Dean's blood puddles next to one hand, dripping off the clumps of tissue that clings to the claws.
“You...” Dean says past his swelling throat, “you know...who did it.”
The werewolf's eyes move to Dean’s face, but they don’t seem able to focus on anything.
“Tell me.”
The werewolf twitches, but says nothing.
“Tell me!”
“Dean!”
Gordon.
~
“No.” Dean shook his head. “No...no.”
Gordon stepped up beside him, his leg resting against Dean’s shoulder. Dean can feel him pause, and then his touch is gone. Probably checking to make sure there was no one waiting to jump them, like Dad would have done.
You have to save him. If you can’t--
Dad. It was his fault. They wouldn’t even be here if Dad was still…
His fingers brushed Sam’s bangs. The hair felt like his, soft but coarse. He’d cut Sammy’s hair enough times to know how it felt.
Sam.
“Dean.”
He looked up at Gordon. The other hunter was still holding his gun, but his arms were relaxed and by his side.
“We have to get them,” Dean said.
Gordon nodded. “I know. But this is a threat, and if we don’t leave, regroup…”
“I don’t care.” Dean looked up at Gordon, and he could feel his jaw set in place. “I’m going to find them.”
“It’s too late for him.”
Him. Sam. But this wasn’t Sam. This...was just a head.
Dean let his eyes narrow. “It’s never too late.”
~
“Gordon,” Dean says, glancing to his left. “Help me out here.”
The mist swirls, and Gordon steps out, wisps of cloud floating around his head and disappearing. Dean finds it weird that he’s not looking him in the eyes, but he can’t figure why.
It’s only when Gordon looks at the wolf on the ground that he speaks. “Help you with what?”
“The wolf. He knows something.”
“Something?”
Dean puts his free hand to his shoulder. It was really starting to sting. “About Sam! He won’t talk.”
“He’s not going to.”
“What…”
But Dean knows before he looks over that the man’s reverted to human form.
No were can handle silver. You get at least two shots in, even in non-vital spots, and that’s usually enough.
He wants to protest, dig the bullets out...anything. But his limbs are going numb, and Gordon’s pointing a gun in his face.
“Show me your shoulder,” he says, and Dean understands why they aren’t meeting each other’s gazes.
Dean sways on his feet and drops to his knees, and his eyelids flutter. But he pulls away the tatters of jacket and shirt to fully reveal the wound that Gordon could probably see just fine already.
“I’m sorry,” Gordon says, cocking his gun.
Briefly, Dean considers begging for his life. Still, as he looks at the barrel of the gun, all he can see is darkness, the peace that Sam craved and Dad never gave them.
He closes his eyes and feels every muscle in his body relax. It isn’t until this moment that he knows how much he’s wanted the hunt to end this way.
Sam.
A Beast in Repose (part two)
Dean knows he's in Bobby's place before he opens his eyes. The smell alone is a dead giveaway: cigar smoke, beer, and the barest hint of sulfur underneath. But he hears the soles of Bobby's ass-kicking boots putting his floorboards in their place after he takes a whiff, and he smiles.
With a groan, Dean sits upright. It feels like hammers went to town on his head and knives sliced up his wrists, but he's alive.
He's alive?
How?
San Francisco...he passed out in California and woke up in South Dakota. Driving that distance would take days...nearly a week with the snow that still choked the mountain passes, longer if there were new storms.
How in the hell did I sleep for a week?
It's only when Dean reaches a hand to his head and his wrists rattle that he realizes he's asking the wrong questions. But then, it isn't every day that Bobby keeps Dean chained in his basement.
~
Bobby takes a sip of his beer and puts it on the table. He heard Dean clanking downstairs a while ago, probably when the boy first woke up, but he doesn't regret letting him stew in his juices. He was and likely still is confused all to hell, but Bobby was in no hurry to get back to him. He still isn't, but he's going to have to get this over with at some point.
He rises, stretches his arms forward, and makes his way toward the basement. His footsteps click in time with his heartbeat, so his pace is the perfect speed: fast enough so he'll get somewhere eventually, but slow enough so that Dean will know he's coming. The last thing he wants to do is surprise him.
Bobby stops at the top of the stairs. He left the door open the last time he left just for this reason.
“Dean?”
A pause, then, “What the hell is going on?”
Yep. Dean's definitely awake.
Bobby doesn't answer him at first. He walks down the steps a little slower than he'd been walking before and takes in the sight of Dean.
The black eye healed almost completely, and the only way he can see it is because he knows to look for the yellow-tinged skin. Almost all of the lacerations are closed up as well, some with raised pink reminders left over, some completely gone. Mostly, Dean's looking the way he normally does...but Bobby frequently sees Dean when he's beat to hell, so maybe he isn't the best judge.
The main differences are where the repeated, heavy injuries are. Dean hit his head about a million times, so his hair's stained a dark red from the blood, and his wrists are torn so badly that Bobby's surprised he can't see bone.
What he didn't notice before is just how skinny the boy looks. Dean's never been huge, but his cheekbones hadn't ever poked out as much as they are now. Bobby noticed a couple of days ago that the clothes he'd had to keep replacing were hanging off of Dean, but Bobby had thought before that it was only because he'd had to use his own clothes after they were away from the stores.
Dean glares up at Bobby, but his gaze seems pointed to the wall next to Bobby's head, so it's likely the gloom's too much for him. That answers one question.
“Answer me!”
The voice Dean uses is the gruff one that Bobby thinks of as his “command” voice because John sounded the exact same way when he was doing his military crap. He bites his tongue in order to keep from shooting some smart-ass remark back; Dean isn't John, and Bobby isn't going to screw up this situation more than he already had.
“How you feeling?”
“Like warmed-over shit. Thanks.” It's good to hear the sarcasm's still intact.
Bobby walks the rest of the way down the stairs, takes three paces, then stops. He's past the limit of Dean's chains by a few feet, and he has no interest in closing the distance at this point.
Dean's eyes focus on Bobby's face, and the grimace on his face fades, along with the color he had in his cheeks. If he's any color now, it's green.
Bobby can't help smiling. Even with everything screwed, he still has the element of surprise. And that means he has the upper hand.
~
Bobby's missing a fucking eye.
Dean isn't a genius, and maybe he can't come to the ends easy, but he reads clues as good as anyone. He sees the claw marks down Bobby's face, that the cuts around Bobby's eye in particular don't look even close to healed. The limited medical know-how Dean has tells him that Bobby shouldn't be exposing it to air because it looks about two seconds away from bleeding.
“Damn it, Bobby,” he says. “What the hell were you doing in San Francisco?”
Bobby snorts. “Following your dumb ass. What else?”
“Why?”
“Not important.” Bobby lowers into a crouch, wincing as he does so. “There's other things need to be said.”
Dean rolls his tongue around in his mouth and gives a wince of his own. The roof of his mouth feels like fucking Death Valley, but he isn't about to ask Bobby for water. He hopes that he can get some spit, or talking's going to suck.
He bounces his hand up and down a couple of times and lets chain rattle. “You could say that again.”
“What do you remember, exactly?”
“Um...” Dean does his best to shut out the gaping socket in Bobby's face long enough to conjure up some thoughts. But it's easier said than done. “Gordon and I noticed that a lot of murders were popping up in San Fran, and they all fit into the full moon cycle. We got there, found a wolf, found its wolf buddy...anyway, I killed them.”
“And?”
And Gordon was a few seconds away from putting his lights out for good.
“I guess I got hurt, or something.” Dean frowns. “Where's Gordon?”
The grin that Bobby gives Dean sends shivers across his skin. “Shark bait, I'd expect. They're supposed to be nasty in that bay.”
“You killed him?”
“It was you or him. I probably shoulda let him plug you, but a man's entitled to his lapses.”
“You're a real pal.”
“Sure.” Bobby rises to his feet. “Bet you're wondering about these here chains.”
“It's crossed my mind.”
“And I saw you staring at my face.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Thought it was polite to look someone in the face when talking to them.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Bobby scratches at the stubble on his cheek with his hand. “You ain't stupid, no matter how good you play stupid.”
“Look,” Dean says. “Let's just get to it, okay?”
“Get to it?”
“You're going to shoot me.”
“Am I?”
“Now who's playing stupid?”
Bobby steps forward, and Dean turns his head away from Bobby. “Just make it quick.”
The chains around Dean's wrists yank forward, and Dean looks back. Bobby's holding what looks like a key, and he's bringing it toward the metal.
“What the hell?” Dean asks, his eyes widening to a near painful size.
Bobby doesn't answer. He narrows his eyes, then sets the key inside the lock. He turns it a couple of times, and the metal separates, leaving one of Dean's wrists bare.
It isn't until the second cuff's off and Bobby's working on the ones around Dean's ankles that he speaks again. “Told you that we needed to talk.”
“We were doing just fine.”
Bobby shakes his head and pushes chain out of his way. “I need to show you something.”
“Haven't you shown me enough?”
“I went to San Fran...” Bobby trails off for a moment as he unlocks the last cuff. “The reason I followed you was because I found something.”
As soon as Bobby backs away – which is faster than an old injured man should have the right to move, come to it – Dean starts to rise to his feet. It's hard, and he wasn't expecting anything less, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
He sees Bobby watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he sighs. “I can barely walk. I think you're safe.”
“Just the same, you're going first.”
Dean shrugs. “Fine.”
He takes a couple steps, pauses as his legs wobble, and keeps going. If he could manage to walk when he was a breath away from heart failure, then he can walk when he's lost a week of his life. No big deal.
It takes him about five minutes to get to the stairs and walk to the top. He has to stop a couple of times because his legs cramp and won't let him move further. Bobby hovers a good twenty feet back the entire time; he doesn't even approach the bottom until Dean's at the top.
“Geez, Bobby, give a man room to breathe,” Dean says, trying not to wince.
“Go to the kitchen.”
Dean exhales and opens the door. His heart's pounding in his ears, but he isn't sure why. Walking's hard, sure, but his breathing's normal, and he hasn't broken a sweat. He won't even let himself think that it's because he's scared.
When he's cleared the door by several feet, he hears Bobby's boots clanking up the stairs. He's tempted to stop in place and watch Bobby, give him a taste of his own medicine, but Dean also wants to sit down. He decides to give the victory to Bobby and shuffles to the kitchen. At least Dean isn't dead.
Keep telling yourself that, and you might start believing it.
And just like that, the ache returns. It's nothing physical, at least in origin, but man, Dean feels it in his chest and his gut. He wishes that the vampires that ripped Sam's head off had taken out his heart instead; it probably would hurt less, in the long run.
Once he gets inside, he leans against the kitchen counter for a minute – of course, his arms hurt nearly as much as his legs, but at least it's a switch -- then sits in a chair. As he suspects, his legs stop giving him trouble, but he doesn't seem to ache any less.
Goddamn it, Sam.
Why had it been so easy for Sam? All that he'd had to do was leave that bar, get taken by some vampires, and boom, done. Dean had been roughed up plenty by a werewolf and nearly gunned down, but he's still up and walking around. Sort of, anyway.
Dean realizes, as he sits waiting for whatever in Bobby's kitchen, that he hates Sam just as much as he misses him. And that's why he still hurts; he can't forgive himself for hating his own brother.
It isn't until he hears a thump just outside of the sliding doors that Dean looks up.
“Open it,” Bobby says, so quietly that Dean almost can't hear him.
“What?” Dean asks.
Bobby grunts. “You stay seated, boy.”
Fingers slip between the doors, then push them apart. Dean watches as the doors slide and reveal the people behind.
People.
Bobby's behind the first man, and since that's who Dean is looking for, his eyes flash there first. Bobby's mouth is set tight, and he isn't watching Dean.
He's watching Sam.
Before Dean can take the time to consider why Sam is standing in front of him...how Sam is standing in front of him, Bobby steps forward. The florescent light above Dean's head reflects in Bobby's hand, and Dean stands as fast as he can.
A knife is buried in Sam's chest before Dean can take one step forward.
A Beast in Repose (part three)
Sam rolls his eyes into the back of his head as Dean reaches into the waistband of his jeans for his gun. He takes a full thirty seconds to remember that he'd been unconscious for days in Bobby's house, and another ten seconds after to start scanning the kitchen for something with an edge.
Bobby, on the other hand, merely looks overwhelmed as he tries to balance Sam. “Will you help me?”
“Get away from him!”
“Just calm--”
“Now!”
“Damn it, will you listen for a second?”
Sam makes a choking sound and slumps, and Dean forgets all about Bobby. He runs forward and grabs the knife, but the edge of the handle is stuck under Sam's skin. Moving it only causes Sam to draw in a breath that sounds more liquid than air.
Before Dean can decide what to do next, Bobby's hand clamps around Dean's wrist. His skin starts to itch, but that doesn't stop him from meeting Bobby's good eye.
“Take your hand off of me.”
“How much of an idiot are you, boy?”
Dean snarls, but it isn't in reply to Bobby's statement. His skin's heating up so much it feels like it's going to burn off. He pulls hard, and even though his muscles feel like water, he jerks out of Bobby's grip with little trouble. However, it means letting go of the knife, so he grabs it with his other hand as quickly as possible.
Sam makes a noise. At first, Dean thinks it's yet another desperate attempt to breath, since he probably moved the blade in Sam's chest around, but Sam repeats it.
“Dean?”
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
Bobby says, “Help me!”
Without further hesitation, Dean slings Sam's other arm around his shoulder. Sam's head hangs forward, and his eyelids flutter, but he looks to be trying to focus.
“The chair,” Bobby says with effort.
“But he's hurt,” Dean says, and feels a surge of anger that nearly makes him shake.
“He'll be fine. Just sit him down!”
They shuffle across the kitchen; Sam's feet can't seem to gain traction, and Dean struggles to keep him up. He pulls out the chair he'd been sitting in with his foot, and it screeches against the tile on the floor. Both he and Bobby crouch and lower Sam into the chair, and Sam groans as he makes contact.
Dean extracts himself and kneels in front of Sam. Sam's head is tipped forward, so Dean puts his hands under his chin and props it up.
“Hey,” he says, fighting tears. “Talk to me.”
“Dean,” Sam says. His eyes meet Dean's, and his dry and cracked lips push into a small smile.
A hand on Dean's shoulder tips him backward, not because it's powerful, but because Dean's off-balance. He stumbles, then gets to his feet in one motion and swings his fist. Bobby steps out of the way just in time and holds up his hands.
“Don't get close. Not 'til I've fed him.”
The words make no sense to Dean. He shakes his head, then throws his fist at Bobby again. Bobby tilts his head to the side and lets it pass.
“Fine!” Bobby yells. “You want your throat torn out, be my guest!”
“What are you talking about?”
Bobby backs into a drawer and opens it, keeping eye contact with Dean. Before he puts a hand inside, he rolls up the sleeve of his left arm, and Dean sees gashes all up and down his arm parallel with his wrist. Some are light pink, but most are an angry red. Dean's innards freeze.
“I'll show you,” Bobby says, putting his right hand into the drawer. Unseen metal rattles as Bobby searches, but after a second, he extracts a small dagger and puts it against his skin, digging in. Blood rises to the surface.
Sam hisses behind Dean.
Bobby puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, holding his arm level to keep his wound from dripping on the floor. “This is just to tide him over, you understand. Haven't gotten a chance to leave since you got here.”
Dean feels the blood leave his head, but he doesn't sway. He just steps aside and turns as Bobby walks past him.
Sam's eyes are fixed on Bobby's arm, and he's breathing through his mouth fast. His fists are balled up so tight that his knuckles look like they're going to burst out of his hands. He tilts his head back as Bobby hovers his arm over Sam's head.
Dean knows what's coming next, even if he doesn't know what it means, and his stomach rolls.
Bobby tips his arm over and squeezes just above the gash in his arm. Blood spills into Sam's open mouth, and he slurps loudly.
Dean's stomach lurches again. Not because he's disgusted. He's...fascinated. He can't tear his gaze away from Bobby's arm, and he can't think, can't figure out why he's feeling this way or why Sam's drinking blood or why Bobby's letting him.
Dean looks down for an instant; it's all he can manage. He sees that Sam's now gripping the seat of the chair with both hands and hears the wood creak. He hears another creaking and barely registers that it's his own teeth, clenched together as hard as he can manage.
Bobby puts a hand over the gash and moves to the sink, and Sam tilts his head down. His lips are pulled away from his teeth in what looks like a snarl, but Dean squints, and his throat closes up.
Over Sam's pearly whites are a full set of twisted, crooked fangs.
~
Sam smells Dean with every breath he takes in through his nose. His eyes don't want to focus, but the scent is so strong that it makes up for it. He doesn't smell as good as Bobby, but it takes every ounce of self-control within Sam to stay in the chair and leave Dean leaning against the counter.
He touches a tentative hand to his chest. Bobby took out the knife before he left, but the dead man's blood left the wound open and burning. He presses it hard and hisses under his breath.
“What...”
Sam grimaces and looks up. Dean's gaze is fixed on him, at the knife wound. Sam's vision starts to clear as he watches Dean.
“It's fine,” Sam says. He isn't about to tell Dean that pain works better than self-control.
Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam realizes what he said. And how wrong it is. He decides to try something else. “It's good to see you.”
It doesn't relax Dean like he hoped. But then, it's a massive understatement.
“Was that your head?”
Sam blinks. “My head.”
“Back in Montana. The motel.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Dean pushes a hand over his hair. “They...left your head on the front step.”
“My head.” That explained a lot, and begged more questions, like how they found a head that was believable as Sam's.
“Oh? That's all you have?”
Sam feels a surge of anger, and with it, hunger spiking. It's all he can do to keep his fangs from coming out again. “I wish they had cut my head off.”
“What?” Dean's face twists.
Sam isn't sure what to tell him. He probably wouldn't want to hear a retelling of Lenore's speech about making an example of a hunter to get others off the trail, or how the blood roared through his body as he was forced to drink from Lenore's arm, or how he felt himself grow skinnier and less focused as they trapped him in a basement for months without feeding him. And how voraciously he ate when they did.
He decides to go simple. “It would have been quicker.”
Dean's lip quivers, and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Sam stares at the floor.
“How'd...did Bobby find you?”
Sam shakes his head without looking up. “Got away about a month ago. I tried your old number...I called Bobby after, explained what happened.”
“And he believed you?”
“No.” Sam smiles. “Got the drop on me at our meeting place and sliced my arm with a knife. It had dead man's blood on it.”
He hears Dean's boots stamp on the floor, and he looks up. Dean's pacing across the other side of the kitchen, not meeting Sam's eyes. His inhale sounds more like a sniffle than a normal breath, but Sam keeps his hearing unfocused, just in case.
“Why didn't he kill you?” Dean asks, his voice a quiet rumble.
Sam swallows. “I asked him not to.”
“And he listened?”
“When he heard my reason.”
Their eyes lock again, and Dean stops walking. His eyes widen.
“No fucking way.”
“Dean, you promised.”
“No.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows and swallows. He feels like he should be crying, but his eyes are bone dry.
“It's your turn, Dean.”
Dean frowns. “My turn.”
“Bobby didn't tell me what happened. In San Francisco.”
“Nothing much. Hunting werewolves with Gordon--”
“With Gordon?” He bites his lip after he says it.
Dean shakes his head. “I won't be hunting with him anymore. Hell, I wouldn't be breathing if Bobby hadn't--”
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“Can't say that Gordon and I were close.” Dean's shoulder drop as he exhales. “Good man to have at my back, though.”
Sam tilts his head slightly. “Not about that.”
Dean's face tightens. “I'm fine.”
“You are.” Sam's eyes drop to Dean's wrists. Both have raw patches circled around, but his right has a particularly deep burn mark.
Dean follows his gaze, then touches the mark with his other hand. He hisses. “Don't know what Bobby had, but man...”
“You don't know?” It's plain to him, but he heard the screams from the basement for the last week and can see the clothes hang off Dean's body. And if Bobby's blood smells like brandy – tastes like it too, which makes the dead cow blood that much more nauseating – Dean's smells like cheap hooch. Not mouthwatering by any means, but drinkable nonetheless.
“Know?” The question is tinged with the slightest edge of fear. Sam might not have heard it so clear before the change, but he would have recognized it right away.
Sam thinks hard. It's been a while since he's hunted, but the info comes back without too much trouble. “Bobby's blood...did it make you hungry?”
“What? No!” The answer's too quick to be a true denial.
“Do you remember...remember getting bitten?”
If Dean wasn't pale before, he certainly was now. His eyes are so wide they look like they'll pop out of his skull.
“Gordon,” Dean whispers. “He was gonna shoot me.”
Sam's vision starts to have red at the edges. If Gordon wasn't dead, Sam would tear him limb from limb, suck him completely dry, and--
He looks at Dean. Tears are streaking down his cheeks, and he's not doing a thing to try and stop them. Sam feels a stab of jealousy at his emotional expression, but it disappears as anguish takes hold.
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“The last week,” Dean says, his voice husky. “I...”
Sam nods.
“And Bobby's eye.”
He nods again.
Dean leans heavily against the counter next to Bobby's various phones. His eyes are unfocused. “Why didn't he kill me?”
Sam has his theories, his own request at the top of his mind. But he doesn't know for sure, and so, he doesn't bother trying to answer. Dean doesn't seem to expect him to, since he doesn't look his way.
Before Sam can do anything else, he hears the front door open, and he jerks his head around. He can see Dean does too, faster than he was ever able to before. There's a rigidness to Dean that he's never seen before.
The rustle of plastic bags and the slam of the door reaches Sam just before the smell of Bobby does. As he approaches, Sam can start to smell the cow blood through the containers, and hunger so sweet that it's nearly pleasure floods through him. Dean looks back at him, then bites his lip. He looks like he's going to lose his stomach contents.
I should never have let Dean see me like this, Sam thinks. Bobby should've killed me.
Bobby pushes into the kitchen, hands full of bags. It's more than he usually comes back with, but then, there's more people in the house who like their food rare. If Sam wasn't so ravenous, he knew he would feel shame, and he wishes with all his being that he could.
Dropping the bags on the floor, Bobby backs away. “I'll leave you boys to it.”
Sam has the discipline of several months guiding him; he manages to look away from the bags and at Dean and Bobby. Dean, on the other hand, has barely eaten for a week and has only had his hunger for about that long. He practically jogs to the bags and is on his knees in the blink of an eye.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says, touching the wound on his chest again. “We'll talk after?”
Bobby nods. His face is neutral, and Sam wonders at it. But his eyes flash on Dean, and Sam can see him swallow hard, and he leaves the room.
Dean is tearing through the bags to get to the contents; he seems to be past the point where he can remember that bags have an opening in the top. Each inhale sounds more snarl than breath, and Sam's fangs extend before he realizes it.
He leans back in the chair and grimaces as the hunger sharpens into pain. Dean needs to feed first, and Sam has already had a snack. He can wait, no matter what his body says.
~
Meat slides down Dean's throat, and he nearly groans as his stomach eases its churning. He takes more, and more, and it quiets further.
It's only when he's silenced it completely that he takes in the kitchen around him.
Blood's all over the floor – Dean's nose crinkles because, even though the hunger abated, it still smells interesting – and he's on all fours in the middle of it. Scraps of plastic cling together by either static or because of the blood connecting it, and Dean stares at it for a while until he remembers that Bobby carried everything in with bags.
He puts a hand to his temple, trying to settle his racing thoughts. It was so hard to remember.
A slurping noise echoes, and Dean's ear pricks. He looks toward the corner and sees Sam huddled in it, clutching a round Tupperware container. Sam's chugging and groaning as he does so, and Dean feels his cheeks flush. It sounds like Sam's enjoying adult pay-per-view, not...not drinking blood.
God.
He raises his hands in front of his face and sees them shaking. It's something he hasn't done since he was a kid and he saw his dad kill a shapeshifter...his dad's first kill, unless his memory's completely shot. He'd cried for about a week, peed his pants whenever Dad pulled out a gun.
But even childhood terror can't stand up to this.
Sam finishes with the container and tosses it aside; there's three more empty ones next to him. He looks at Dean apologetically. “I was going to wait until you were done, but...”
He remembers growling as Sam came close and pulled a bag away.
“Sammy,” he says, and his voice sounds small in his ears.
Sam's face screws up like he's going to cry, but Dean sees no moisture there. Right. Vampires can't cry.
Water splashes onto his hand, and he looks down, sees the drop trail down and drag a path through the caked blood.
Sam laughs, and Dean twitches.
“I'm sorry,” Sam says. “It's just...the irony, right?”
Dean can't find words to answer.
“We hunt these things our whole lives, and this is how it ends. You and me, together.”
Dean exhales slowly. It did make a certain sense. He could suffer what Sam had suffered, and he could die when Sam dictated it.
He laughs too, then grins. Sam tilts his head. “What?”
“I know what we have to do,” Dean says.
“Do?”
“With this.” He gestures at the kitchen around him.
Sam frowned. “I don't follow.”
“We can find Yellow Eyes.”
~
Bobby steps away from the kitchen door, a smile on his face. Or rather, Bobby's body steps away from the kitchen. Bobby isn't doing much but raging in his own head.
He laughs quietly, then goes and sits down, puts Bobby's feet onto his desk.
The fun's about to get started.
(Part four.)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: This part is a hard PG-13, and the rating may climb throughout the story.
Length: Multi-chaptered; parts one through three are about 7,000 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Gordon, Bobby other canon characters.
Spoilers: All of season two, especially "Bloodlust" (2x03) and "Heart" (2x17), and small elements of John Winchester's Journal (which isn't technically canon).
Summary: What if Lenore didn't think that letting Sam go was the best course of action? And what if Dean ended up in San Francisco with a different hunter at his back?
Notes: Ever since I first saw "Heart", I've been working on various drafts of this story, so this has been in the making for about a couple years now. I'm thinking, at this point, that it's going to be either five or six parts, and there'll be more extended notes at the end of the third part.
Sam told Dean once, while they traveled on yet another lonely stretch of road, that San Francisco was famous for its fog. He'd taken Jess there for their first anniversary, Sam had said, and when he'd woken up the first morning, the world outside his window was covered with clouds. It was as if the city he'd seen the day before was gone, and there was nothing but their hotel room left.
Dean, of course, had told Sam that he'd been at that fruity school of his too long and paid attention to driving again.
But that's why Dean isn't surprised when Gordon parts ways with him at the Embarcadero and fades out of sight before he walks five feet. Gordon is no part of this, and neither are the buildings or the bay around him. The fog was Sam's San Francisco, and so it must be Dean's, too.
A hint of motion to the right, then nothing.
Dean takes a breath, draws the moisture into his mouth and lungs, and moves. He pads forward on the balls of his feet, the only noises from his rolling steps swallowed by the water-soaked air. His pulse pushes against the handle of his gun, and the exposed metal grows cold and warm when it shifts in his hand.
He senses the rumble before it happens, and he turns before he realizes it's gone.
A breeze stirs the dead air, tickles the slight points on the top of his head.
Sam.
Dean's ears ring, and when he opens his eyes, his arm points away from his old position. The smoke rising from the barrel of the gun joins the swirling gray around it.
The blood spilling from the fallen corpse stains the sidewalk underneath.
“I've been itching for a good hunt,” Gordon said. “Sure, I took a couple fangs here, but you know how it goes.”
“Which part?”
Gordon patted the dashboard with his free hand. “Getting from place to place. Wears on a man after a while.”
“What happened to enjoying the job?” Dean asked. He was tipsy enough to over-pronounce the words, but since he noticed the exaggerations, he knew that he wasn't anywhere near drunk. “That just a bunch of talk?”
“Hardly.” Gordon chuckled, his teeth reflecting the glow from the headlights. “But the miles feel longer when I know I haven't taken anything out for days.”
“Sure. ”
Dean could see Gordon shrug his shoulders out of the corner of his eyes. Gordon's clothing fit into the darkness well enough to make it difficult to look at him, and Dean wasn't in the mood to try, so he kept his eyes on the dividing lines in the road.
“Things have been a bit hit or miss on the vampire front. If I want anything else, no problem, but...well, it's not where my interest lies, if you get me.”
He did get him. Gordon had just talked about his sister in the bar, after all. If something like that had happened to Sam...
Before he could finish the thought, the car turned and hit a bump, and Dean straightened in his seat. When he spotted the Impala parked in the distance, he let out a breath, and he felt his shoulders loosen.
Dean bounced his hand on his leg a couple times, then spoke. “I'm gonna go get Sam.”
“Looked to me like he was done for the night.”
“No way I'm going nest-hunting without him.”
Gordon pulled up to the side of the motel a few paces from the Impala. “I'll get the maps.”
“Why? Let's just go.”
There was a pause, and for a moment, Dean tensed up.
“Might work better if we know where we've been before we go looking again,” Gordon said. He turned the ignition, and the engine went dead.
Dean pushed the door open. “I'll meet you inside.”
An echo of Sam is in Dean's head. She's just a girl, he says, the note of pain unmistakable. There has to be another way.
Maybe there is another way, but Dean neither knows of it nor cares to find out. The only reason he listens to the voice at all is because he doesn't ignore his brother. Not anymore.
He sinks down, staying on the balls of his feet. With the barrel of his gun, he nudges the girl's body a couple of times. She doesn't move. Dean notices the hole in the back of her head and the smears of pink on the pavement behind her. He nods to himself, his mouth set tight, and lets his eyes wander over the body.
It isn't until he sees it that he recognizes it.
With his free hand, he brushes her dark brown hair away from the back of her neck where a circular scar runs along the surface of her skin. The ridge is the pink of healing, still recent enough to look raw, but something that would have taken several months for a normal person to heal.
Too recent for her to be the cause of the murders.
Dean holds his breath and wills his heart to stop beating as loudly. And he wonders why the whistle of the breeze has a rattle underneath.
“So the west is covered?”
Dean nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. His lids were stinging, and if he could have ripped them off, he would have. “Up to the river.”
“That's where we should start,” Gordon said. “If you're up for it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair and parted the curtains with his thumb. “Night's not getting any longer.”
“I know.” Dean rubbed a finger over one of his eyebrows. “Sam should have been back by now.”
“Maybe he went for a walk. He seems like the walking type.”
“I guess.”
Gordon straightened. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“At the door.”
Dean pushed out of his chair. As he approached the door, he pulled his pearl-handled gun out of the back of his pants and cocked it. Gordon was already flattened against the wall. His own piece was nestled in one hand, and with the other, he curled his fingers around the door handle. He looked at Dean, then back at the door.
Dean raised his head slowly, listening. When he didn’t hear anything, he let it drop.
Gordon pulled the handle.
“Come out, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.
He wraps his hands around the butt of his gun and slides around in a circle. He keeps the body in the corner of his eye, partially to keep from tripping, and partially because corpses make great bait.
It isn't until the hair rises on the back of his neck that he catches a smell on the breeze. Something like the combination of wet dog and rotting flesh.
Dean throws himself to his left just as a blur passes to the right. It clips his shoulder, and he spins as he falls, landing hard on his stomach before he can try to catch himself. He starts to lose his grip on the gun, but his fingers stay latched around.
He throws his gun hand behind him and rolls with the motion just as a paw the size of his head hits the ground beside him. His leg contacts with what feels like a column of brick, but the way it shakes tells him that it's not.
Blood runs down Dean's arm. He howls as his vision blurs and whatever digs into his shoulder buries in further, scraping against bone.
The fog presses on his eyes. It’s all he can see now.
No one stood on the front step. That didn't stop Dean from sliding out of the room to the left, and the brush to his back told him that Gordon did the same to the right.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No...wait.”
Dean spun around, but Gordon was kneeling, his free hand pulling at string. A trickle of blood oozed past the edge of Gordon's boot, and Dean tilted his head enough to see that the string was holding a garbage bag closed.
“Looks like they left us a present,” Dean said. He craned his head upward and looked around. “They must know we're closing in.”
Gordon's hand dropped. “Dean.”
“What?” Maybe there was a tire tread or a print somewhere, maybe...
“Dean.”
His head snapped down just as Gordon rose and moved away from the bag.
“Motherfucker!”
Dean takes his gun out of his weakening hand and shoves it against the monster's belly. His pointer finger squeezes so hard that, for a minute, he thinks the trigger's going to slice through the joint.
A couple rounds go off, and the claws in Dean's shoulder relax.
They both drop to the ground, the beast on its side, and Dean on his knees. The shock of impact is so hard that his knees buckle, and he falls forward.
The creature whines, a high-pitched noise that scratches against eardrums. Dean grinds his teeth together and pulls himself slowly onto his elbow, clenching the gun as he jars his hurt shoulder.
That's when Dean gets a good view of the werewolf for the first time.
It isn't dead – it would revert to human form if that happened – but it can't move. It's shaped somewhat like a dog: long torso, four legs underneath. The back legs could belong to any canine, but the front legs are more human. The paws have five fingers with dagger-shaped tips, there's a bend where a wrist should be, and there's even an elbow.
Dean's blood puddles next to one hand, dripping off the clumps of tissue that clings to the claws.
“You...” Dean says past his swelling throat, “you know...who did it.”
The werewolf's eyes move to Dean’s face, but they don’t seem able to focus on anything.
“Tell me.”
The werewolf twitches, but says nothing.
“Tell me!”
“Dean!”
Gordon.
“No.” Dean shook his head. “No...no.”
Gordon stepped up beside him, his leg resting against Dean’s shoulder. Dean can feel him pause, and then his touch is gone. Probably checking to make sure there was no one waiting to jump them, like Dad would have done.
You have to save him. If you can’t--
Dad. It was his fault. They wouldn’t even be here if Dad was still…
His fingers brushed Sam’s bangs. The hair felt like his, soft but coarse. He’d cut Sammy’s hair enough times to know how it felt.
Sam.
“Dean.”
He looked up at Gordon. The other hunter was still holding his gun, but his arms were relaxed and by his side.
“We have to get them,” Dean said.
Gordon nodded. “I know. But this is a threat, and if we don’t leave, regroup…”
“I don’t care.” Dean looked up at Gordon, and he could feel his jaw set in place. “I’m going to find them.”
“It’s too late for him.”
Him. Sam. But this wasn’t Sam. This...was just a head.
Dean let his eyes narrow. “It’s never too late.”
“Gordon,” Dean says, glancing to his left. “Help me out here.”
The mist swirls, and Gordon steps out, wisps of cloud floating around his head and disappearing. Dean finds it weird that he’s not looking him in the eyes, but he can’t figure why.
It’s only when Gordon looks at the wolf on the ground that he speaks. “Help you with what?”
“The wolf. He knows something.”
“Something?”
Dean puts his free hand to his shoulder. It was really starting to sting. “About Sam! He won’t talk.”
“He’s not going to.”
“What…”
But Dean knows before he looks over that the man’s reverted to human form.
No were can handle silver. You get at least two shots in, even in non-vital spots, and that’s usually enough.
He wants to protest, dig the bullets out...anything. But his limbs are going numb, and Gordon’s pointing a gun in his face.
“Show me your shoulder,” he says, and Dean understands why they aren’t meeting each other’s gazes.
Dean sways on his feet and drops to his knees, and his eyelids flutter. But he pulls away the tatters of jacket and shirt to fully reveal the wound that Gordon could probably see just fine already.
“I’m sorry,” Gordon says, cocking his gun.
Briefly, Dean considers begging for his life. Still, as he looks at the barrel of the gun, all he can see is darkness, the peace that Sam craved and Dad never gave them.
He closes his eyes and feels every muscle in his body relax. It isn’t until this moment that he knows how much he’s wanted the hunt to end this way.
Sam.
Dean knows he's in Bobby's place before he opens his eyes. The smell alone is a dead giveaway: cigar smoke, beer, and the barest hint of sulfur underneath. But he hears the soles of Bobby's ass-kicking boots putting his floorboards in their place after he takes a whiff, and he smiles.
With a groan, Dean sits upright. It feels like hammers went to town on his head and knives sliced up his wrists, but he's alive.
He's alive?
How?
San Francisco...he passed out in California and woke up in South Dakota. Driving that distance would take days...nearly a week with the snow that still choked the mountain passes, longer if there were new storms.
How in the hell did I sleep for a week?
It's only when Dean reaches a hand to his head and his wrists rattle that he realizes he's asking the wrong questions. But then, it isn't every day that Bobby keeps Dean chained in his basement.
Bobby takes a sip of his beer and puts it on the table. He heard Dean clanking downstairs a while ago, probably when the boy first woke up, but he doesn't regret letting him stew in his juices. He was and likely still is confused all to hell, but Bobby was in no hurry to get back to him. He still isn't, but he's going to have to get this over with at some point.
He rises, stretches his arms forward, and makes his way toward the basement. His footsteps click in time with his heartbeat, so his pace is the perfect speed: fast enough so he'll get somewhere eventually, but slow enough so that Dean will know he's coming. The last thing he wants to do is surprise him.
Bobby stops at the top of the stairs. He left the door open the last time he left just for this reason.
“Dean?”
A pause, then, “What the hell is going on?”
Yep. Dean's definitely awake.
Bobby doesn't answer him at first. He walks down the steps a little slower than he'd been walking before and takes in the sight of Dean.
The black eye healed almost completely, and the only way he can see it is because he knows to look for the yellow-tinged skin. Almost all of the lacerations are closed up as well, some with raised pink reminders left over, some completely gone. Mostly, Dean's looking the way he normally does...but Bobby frequently sees Dean when he's beat to hell, so maybe he isn't the best judge.
The main differences are where the repeated, heavy injuries are. Dean hit his head about a million times, so his hair's stained a dark red from the blood, and his wrists are torn so badly that Bobby's surprised he can't see bone.
What he didn't notice before is just how skinny the boy looks. Dean's never been huge, but his cheekbones hadn't ever poked out as much as they are now. Bobby noticed a couple of days ago that the clothes he'd had to keep replacing were hanging off of Dean, but Bobby had thought before that it was only because he'd had to use his own clothes after they were away from the stores.
Dean glares up at Bobby, but his gaze seems pointed to the wall next to Bobby's head, so it's likely the gloom's too much for him. That answers one question.
“Answer me!”
The voice Dean uses is the gruff one that Bobby thinks of as his “command” voice because John sounded the exact same way when he was doing his military crap. He bites his tongue in order to keep from shooting some smart-ass remark back; Dean isn't John, and Bobby isn't going to screw up this situation more than he already had.
“How you feeling?”
“Like warmed-over shit. Thanks.” It's good to hear the sarcasm's still intact.
Bobby walks the rest of the way down the stairs, takes three paces, then stops. He's past the limit of Dean's chains by a few feet, and he has no interest in closing the distance at this point.
Dean's eyes focus on Bobby's face, and the grimace on his face fades, along with the color he had in his cheeks. If he's any color now, it's green.
Bobby can't help smiling. Even with everything screwed, he still has the element of surprise. And that means he has the upper hand.
Bobby's missing a fucking eye.
Dean isn't a genius, and maybe he can't come to the ends easy, but he reads clues as good as anyone. He sees the claw marks down Bobby's face, that the cuts around Bobby's eye in particular don't look even close to healed. The limited medical know-how Dean has tells him that Bobby shouldn't be exposing it to air because it looks about two seconds away from bleeding.
“Damn it, Bobby,” he says. “What the hell were you doing in San Francisco?”
Bobby snorts. “Following your dumb ass. What else?”
“Why?”
“Not important.” Bobby lowers into a crouch, wincing as he does so. “There's other things need to be said.”
Dean rolls his tongue around in his mouth and gives a wince of his own. The roof of his mouth feels like fucking Death Valley, but he isn't about to ask Bobby for water. He hopes that he can get some spit, or talking's going to suck.
He bounces his hand up and down a couple of times and lets chain rattle. “You could say that again.”
“What do you remember, exactly?”
“Um...” Dean does his best to shut out the gaping socket in Bobby's face long enough to conjure up some thoughts. But it's easier said than done. “Gordon and I noticed that a lot of murders were popping up in San Fran, and they all fit into the full moon cycle. We got there, found a wolf, found its wolf buddy...anyway, I killed them.”
“And?”
And Gordon was a few seconds away from putting his lights out for good.
“I guess I got hurt, or something.” Dean frowns. “Where's Gordon?”
The grin that Bobby gives Dean sends shivers across his skin. “Shark bait, I'd expect. They're supposed to be nasty in that bay.”
“You killed him?”
“It was you or him. I probably shoulda let him plug you, but a man's entitled to his lapses.”
“You're a real pal.”
“Sure.” Bobby rises to his feet. “Bet you're wondering about these here chains.”
“It's crossed my mind.”
“And I saw you staring at my face.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Thought it was polite to look someone in the face when talking to them.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Bobby scratches at the stubble on his cheek with his hand. “You ain't stupid, no matter how good you play stupid.”
“Look,” Dean says. “Let's just get to it, okay?”
“Get to it?”
“You're going to shoot me.”
“Am I?”
“Now who's playing stupid?”
Bobby steps forward, and Dean turns his head away from Bobby. “Just make it quick.”
The chains around Dean's wrists yank forward, and Dean looks back. Bobby's holding what looks like a key, and he's bringing it toward the metal.
“What the hell?” Dean asks, his eyes widening to a near painful size.
Bobby doesn't answer. He narrows his eyes, then sets the key inside the lock. He turns it a couple of times, and the metal separates, leaving one of Dean's wrists bare.
It isn't until the second cuff's off and Bobby's working on the ones around Dean's ankles that he speaks again. “Told you that we needed to talk.”
“We were doing just fine.”
Bobby shakes his head and pushes chain out of his way. “I need to show you something.”
“Haven't you shown me enough?”
“I went to San Fran...” Bobby trails off for a moment as he unlocks the last cuff. “The reason I followed you was because I found something.”
As soon as Bobby backs away – which is faster than an old injured man should have the right to move, come to it – Dean starts to rise to his feet. It's hard, and he wasn't expecting anything less, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
He sees Bobby watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he sighs. “I can barely walk. I think you're safe.”
“Just the same, you're going first.”
Dean shrugs. “Fine.”
He takes a couple steps, pauses as his legs wobble, and keeps going. If he could manage to walk when he was a breath away from heart failure, then he can walk when he's lost a week of his life. No big deal.
It takes him about five minutes to get to the stairs and walk to the top. He has to stop a couple of times because his legs cramp and won't let him move further. Bobby hovers a good twenty feet back the entire time; he doesn't even approach the bottom until Dean's at the top.
“Geez, Bobby, give a man room to breathe,” Dean says, trying not to wince.
“Go to the kitchen.”
Dean exhales and opens the door. His heart's pounding in his ears, but he isn't sure why. Walking's hard, sure, but his breathing's normal, and he hasn't broken a sweat. He won't even let himself think that it's because he's scared.
When he's cleared the door by several feet, he hears Bobby's boots clanking up the stairs. He's tempted to stop in place and watch Bobby, give him a taste of his own medicine, but Dean also wants to sit down. He decides to give the victory to Bobby and shuffles to the kitchen. At least Dean isn't dead.
Keep telling yourself that, and you might start believing it.
And just like that, the ache returns. It's nothing physical, at least in origin, but man, Dean feels it in his chest and his gut. He wishes that the vampires that ripped Sam's head off had taken out his heart instead; it probably would hurt less, in the long run.
Once he gets inside, he leans against the kitchen counter for a minute – of course, his arms hurt nearly as much as his legs, but at least it's a switch -- then sits in a chair. As he suspects, his legs stop giving him trouble, but he doesn't seem to ache any less.
Goddamn it, Sam.
Why had it been so easy for Sam? All that he'd had to do was leave that bar, get taken by some vampires, and boom, done. Dean had been roughed up plenty by a werewolf and nearly gunned down, but he's still up and walking around. Sort of, anyway.
Dean realizes, as he sits waiting for whatever in Bobby's kitchen, that he hates Sam just as much as he misses him. And that's why he still hurts; he can't forgive himself for hating his own brother.
It isn't until he hears a thump just outside of the sliding doors that Dean looks up.
“Open it,” Bobby says, so quietly that Dean almost can't hear him.
“What?” Dean asks.
Bobby grunts. “You stay seated, boy.”
Fingers slip between the doors, then push them apart. Dean watches as the doors slide and reveal the people behind.
People.
Bobby's behind the first man, and since that's who Dean is looking for, his eyes flash there first. Bobby's mouth is set tight, and he isn't watching Dean.
He's watching Sam.
Before Dean can take the time to consider why Sam is standing in front of him...how Sam is standing in front of him, Bobby steps forward. The florescent light above Dean's head reflects in Bobby's hand, and Dean stands as fast as he can.
A knife is buried in Sam's chest before Dean can take one step forward.
Sam rolls his eyes into the back of his head as Dean reaches into the waistband of his jeans for his gun. He takes a full thirty seconds to remember that he'd been unconscious for days in Bobby's house, and another ten seconds after to start scanning the kitchen for something with an edge.
Bobby, on the other hand, merely looks overwhelmed as he tries to balance Sam. “Will you help me?”
“Get away from him!”
“Just calm--”
“Now!”
“Damn it, will you listen for a second?”
Sam makes a choking sound and slumps, and Dean forgets all about Bobby. He runs forward and grabs the knife, but the edge of the handle is stuck under Sam's skin. Moving it only causes Sam to draw in a breath that sounds more liquid than air.
Before Dean can decide what to do next, Bobby's hand clamps around Dean's wrist. His skin starts to itch, but that doesn't stop him from meeting Bobby's good eye.
“Take your hand off of me.”
“How much of an idiot are you, boy?”
Dean snarls, but it isn't in reply to Bobby's statement. His skin's heating up so much it feels like it's going to burn off. He pulls hard, and even though his muscles feel like water, he jerks out of Bobby's grip with little trouble. However, it means letting go of the knife, so he grabs it with his other hand as quickly as possible.
Sam makes a noise. At first, Dean thinks it's yet another desperate attempt to breath, since he probably moved the blade in Sam's chest around, but Sam repeats it.
“Dean?”
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
Bobby says, “Help me!”
Without further hesitation, Dean slings Sam's other arm around his shoulder. Sam's head hangs forward, and his eyelids flutter, but he looks to be trying to focus.
“The chair,” Bobby says with effort.
“But he's hurt,” Dean says, and feels a surge of anger that nearly makes him shake.
“He'll be fine. Just sit him down!”
They shuffle across the kitchen; Sam's feet can't seem to gain traction, and Dean struggles to keep him up. He pulls out the chair he'd been sitting in with his foot, and it screeches against the tile on the floor. Both he and Bobby crouch and lower Sam into the chair, and Sam groans as he makes contact.
Dean extracts himself and kneels in front of Sam. Sam's head is tipped forward, so Dean puts his hands under his chin and props it up.
“Hey,” he says, fighting tears. “Talk to me.”
“Dean,” Sam says. His eyes meet Dean's, and his dry and cracked lips push into a small smile.
A hand on Dean's shoulder tips him backward, not because it's powerful, but because Dean's off-balance. He stumbles, then gets to his feet in one motion and swings his fist. Bobby steps out of the way just in time and holds up his hands.
“Don't get close. Not 'til I've fed him.”
The words make no sense to Dean. He shakes his head, then throws his fist at Bobby again. Bobby tilts his head to the side and lets it pass.
“Fine!” Bobby yells. “You want your throat torn out, be my guest!”
“What are you talking about?”
Bobby backs into a drawer and opens it, keeping eye contact with Dean. Before he puts a hand inside, he rolls up the sleeve of his left arm, and Dean sees gashes all up and down his arm parallel with his wrist. Some are light pink, but most are an angry red. Dean's innards freeze.
“I'll show you,” Bobby says, putting his right hand into the drawer. Unseen metal rattles as Bobby searches, but after a second, he extracts a small dagger and puts it against his skin, digging in. Blood rises to the surface.
Sam hisses behind Dean.
Bobby puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, holding his arm level to keep his wound from dripping on the floor. “This is just to tide him over, you understand. Haven't gotten a chance to leave since you got here.”
Dean feels the blood leave his head, but he doesn't sway. He just steps aside and turns as Bobby walks past him.
Sam's eyes are fixed on Bobby's arm, and he's breathing through his mouth fast. His fists are balled up so tight that his knuckles look like they're going to burst out of his hands. He tilts his head back as Bobby hovers his arm over Sam's head.
Dean knows what's coming next, even if he doesn't know what it means, and his stomach rolls.
Bobby tips his arm over and squeezes just above the gash in his arm. Blood spills into Sam's open mouth, and he slurps loudly.
Dean's stomach lurches again. Not because he's disgusted. He's...fascinated. He can't tear his gaze away from Bobby's arm, and he can't think, can't figure out why he's feeling this way or why Sam's drinking blood or why Bobby's letting him.
Dean looks down for an instant; it's all he can manage. He sees that Sam's now gripping the seat of the chair with both hands and hears the wood creak. He hears another creaking and barely registers that it's his own teeth, clenched together as hard as he can manage.
Bobby puts a hand over the gash and moves to the sink, and Sam tilts his head down. His lips are pulled away from his teeth in what looks like a snarl, but Dean squints, and his throat closes up.
Over Sam's pearly whites are a full set of twisted, crooked fangs.
Sam smells Dean with every breath he takes in through his nose. His eyes don't want to focus, but the scent is so strong that it makes up for it. He doesn't smell as good as Bobby, but it takes every ounce of self-control within Sam to stay in the chair and leave Dean leaning against the counter.
He touches a tentative hand to his chest. Bobby took out the knife before he left, but the dead man's blood left the wound open and burning. He presses it hard and hisses under his breath.
“What...”
Sam grimaces and looks up. Dean's gaze is fixed on him, at the knife wound. Sam's vision starts to clear as he watches Dean.
“It's fine,” Sam says. He isn't about to tell Dean that pain works better than self-control.
Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam realizes what he said. And how wrong it is. He decides to try something else. “It's good to see you.”
It doesn't relax Dean like he hoped. But then, it's a massive understatement.
“Was that your head?”
Sam blinks. “My head.”
“Back in Montana. The motel.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Dean pushes a hand over his hair. “They...left your head on the front step.”
“My head.” That explained a lot, and begged more questions, like how they found a head that was believable as Sam's.
“Oh? That's all you have?”
Sam feels a surge of anger, and with it, hunger spiking. It's all he can do to keep his fangs from coming out again. “I wish they had cut my head off.”
“What?” Dean's face twists.
Sam isn't sure what to tell him. He probably wouldn't want to hear a retelling of Lenore's speech about making an example of a hunter to get others off the trail, or how the blood roared through his body as he was forced to drink from Lenore's arm, or how he felt himself grow skinnier and less focused as they trapped him in a basement for months without feeding him. And how voraciously he ate when they did.
He decides to go simple. “It would have been quicker.”
Dean's lip quivers, and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Sam stares at the floor.
“How'd...did Bobby find you?”
Sam shakes his head without looking up. “Got away about a month ago. I tried your old number...I called Bobby after, explained what happened.”
“And he believed you?”
“No.” Sam smiles. “Got the drop on me at our meeting place and sliced my arm with a knife. It had dead man's blood on it.”
He hears Dean's boots stamp on the floor, and he looks up. Dean's pacing across the other side of the kitchen, not meeting Sam's eyes. His inhale sounds more like a sniffle than a normal breath, but Sam keeps his hearing unfocused, just in case.
“Why didn't he kill you?” Dean asks, his voice a quiet rumble.
Sam swallows. “I asked him not to.”
“And he listened?”
“When he heard my reason.”
Their eyes lock again, and Dean stops walking. His eyes widen.
“No fucking way.”
“Dean, you promised.”
“No.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows and swallows. He feels like he should be crying, but his eyes are bone dry.
“It's your turn, Dean.”
Dean frowns. “My turn.”
“Bobby didn't tell me what happened. In San Francisco.”
“Nothing much. Hunting werewolves with Gordon--”
“With Gordon?” He bites his lip after he says it.
Dean shakes his head. “I won't be hunting with him anymore. Hell, I wouldn't be breathing if Bobby hadn't--”
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“Can't say that Gordon and I were close.” Dean's shoulder drop as he exhales. “Good man to have at my back, though.”
Sam tilts his head slightly. “Not about that.”
Dean's face tightens. “I'm fine.”
“You are.” Sam's eyes drop to Dean's wrists. Both have raw patches circled around, but his right has a particularly deep burn mark.
Dean follows his gaze, then touches the mark with his other hand. He hisses. “Don't know what Bobby had, but man...”
“You don't know?” It's plain to him, but he heard the screams from the basement for the last week and can see the clothes hang off Dean's body. And if Bobby's blood smells like brandy – tastes like it too, which makes the dead cow blood that much more nauseating – Dean's smells like cheap hooch. Not mouthwatering by any means, but drinkable nonetheless.
“Know?” The question is tinged with the slightest edge of fear. Sam might not have heard it so clear before the change, but he would have recognized it right away.
Sam thinks hard. It's been a while since he's hunted, but the info comes back without too much trouble. “Bobby's blood...did it make you hungry?”
“What? No!” The answer's too quick to be a true denial.
“Do you remember...remember getting bitten?”
If Dean wasn't pale before, he certainly was now. His eyes are so wide they look like they'll pop out of his skull.
“Gordon,” Dean whispers. “He was gonna shoot me.”
Sam's vision starts to have red at the edges. If Gordon wasn't dead, Sam would tear him limb from limb, suck him completely dry, and--
He looks at Dean. Tears are streaking down his cheeks, and he's not doing a thing to try and stop them. Sam feels a stab of jealousy at his emotional expression, but it disappears as anguish takes hold.
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“The last week,” Dean says, his voice husky. “I...”
Sam nods.
“And Bobby's eye.”
He nods again.
Dean leans heavily against the counter next to Bobby's various phones. His eyes are unfocused. “Why didn't he kill me?”
Sam has his theories, his own request at the top of his mind. But he doesn't know for sure, and so, he doesn't bother trying to answer. Dean doesn't seem to expect him to, since he doesn't look his way.
Before Sam can do anything else, he hears the front door open, and he jerks his head around. He can see Dean does too, faster than he was ever able to before. There's a rigidness to Dean that he's never seen before.
The rustle of plastic bags and the slam of the door reaches Sam just before the smell of Bobby does. As he approaches, Sam can start to smell the cow blood through the containers, and hunger so sweet that it's nearly pleasure floods through him. Dean looks back at him, then bites his lip. He looks like he's going to lose his stomach contents.
I should never have let Dean see me like this, Sam thinks. Bobby should've killed me.
Bobby pushes into the kitchen, hands full of bags. It's more than he usually comes back with, but then, there's more people in the house who like their food rare. If Sam wasn't so ravenous, he knew he would feel shame, and he wishes with all his being that he could.
Dropping the bags on the floor, Bobby backs away. “I'll leave you boys to it.”
Sam has the discipline of several months guiding him; he manages to look away from the bags and at Dean and Bobby. Dean, on the other hand, has barely eaten for a week and has only had his hunger for about that long. He practically jogs to the bags and is on his knees in the blink of an eye.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says, touching the wound on his chest again. “We'll talk after?”
Bobby nods. His face is neutral, and Sam wonders at it. But his eyes flash on Dean, and Sam can see him swallow hard, and he leaves the room.
Dean is tearing through the bags to get to the contents; he seems to be past the point where he can remember that bags have an opening in the top. Each inhale sounds more snarl than breath, and Sam's fangs extend before he realizes it.
He leans back in the chair and grimaces as the hunger sharpens into pain. Dean needs to feed first, and Sam has already had a snack. He can wait, no matter what his body says.
Meat slides down Dean's throat, and he nearly groans as his stomach eases its churning. He takes more, and more, and it quiets further.
It's only when he's silenced it completely that he takes in the kitchen around him.
Blood's all over the floor – Dean's nose crinkles because, even though the hunger abated, it still smells interesting – and he's on all fours in the middle of it. Scraps of plastic cling together by either static or because of the blood connecting it, and Dean stares at it for a while until he remembers that Bobby carried everything in with bags.
He puts a hand to his temple, trying to settle his racing thoughts. It was so hard to remember.
A slurping noise echoes, and Dean's ear pricks. He looks toward the corner and sees Sam huddled in it, clutching a round Tupperware container. Sam's chugging and groaning as he does so, and Dean feels his cheeks flush. It sounds like Sam's enjoying adult pay-per-view, not...not drinking blood.
God.
He raises his hands in front of his face and sees them shaking. It's something he hasn't done since he was a kid and he saw his dad kill a shapeshifter...his dad's first kill, unless his memory's completely shot. He'd cried for about a week, peed his pants whenever Dad pulled out a gun.
But even childhood terror can't stand up to this.
Sam finishes with the container and tosses it aside; there's three more empty ones next to him. He looks at Dean apologetically. “I was going to wait until you were done, but...”
He remembers growling as Sam came close and pulled a bag away.
“Sammy,” he says, and his voice sounds small in his ears.
Sam's face screws up like he's going to cry, but Dean sees no moisture there. Right. Vampires can't cry.
Water splashes onto his hand, and he looks down, sees the drop trail down and drag a path through the caked blood.
Sam laughs, and Dean twitches.
“I'm sorry,” Sam says. “It's just...the irony, right?”
Dean can't find words to answer.
“We hunt these things our whole lives, and this is how it ends. You and me, together.”
Dean exhales slowly. It did make a certain sense. He could suffer what Sam had suffered, and he could die when Sam dictated it.
He laughs too, then grins. Sam tilts his head. “What?”
“I know what we have to do,” Dean says.
“Do?”
“With this.” He gestures at the kitchen around him.
Sam frowned. “I don't follow.”
“We can find Yellow Eyes.”
Bobby steps away from the kitchen door, a smile on his face. Or rather, Bobby's body steps away from the kitchen. Bobby isn't doing much but raging in his own head.
He laughs quietly, then goes and sits down, puts Bobby's feet onto his desk.
The fun's about to get started.
(Part four.)