by Tim Waggoner
“It’s just a metaphor,” Garth said, sounding a little defensive.
“Did you pick up any scent trails besides the werewolves that killed Amos?” Sam asked. “We know there are at least three, but it would help if we had some idea of how many total we might be up against.”
“There was lycanthrope scent all over the woods,” Garth said. “Trails that overlapped one another, some new, some old. This is a pack that’s been around for a very long time.” He thought for a moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say that currently, it’s a small pack. Probably a single family. Two parents, maybe three grown children.”
“That makes it easier,” Dean said.
Werewolf packs tended to be on the smaller side so they could better avoid being noticed, but a family would fight all the harder to protect each other. That made this pack even more dangerous. He was glad to hear that the children were adults. He didn’t want to have to hurt little kids, even if they were monsters. Killing kids was one thing Dean couldn’t stomach, no matter what species they were.
“How do you boys want to play this?” Garth asked.
“Simple is best,” Dean said. “They don’t know we’re coming, so I say we arm ourselves with silver bullets and silver blades, go in the front and back, and start taking out the furballs one by one.”
“I thought you’d say something like that,” Garth said. “And it’s a decent plan, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t sign on for that.”
Dean had no idea what Garth was talking about, but then Sam said, “You want to talk with them first.”
Garth nodded. “I want to give them a chance to turn away from a life of violence and join my pack. ‘The more voices, the stronger the howl.’”
“Would you cut it out with the werewolf philosophy crap?” Dean said. “This pack has killed at least two people and probably a hell of a lot more. And you want to talk with them? They’re monsters, pure and simple, and you don’t talk to monsters. You put them down so they can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Garth was silent for a moment, then he said, “Monsters like me?”
Dean felt sudden shame. “That’s not what I meant. You’re a hunter—or you were. You know how the job works. It’s kill or be killed.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Garth said. “Not always. Since the last time I saw you guys, I’ve managed to convince seven lycanthropes to join my pack.”
“And how many have you had to kill because they wouldn’t join?” Dean asked.
“Sixteen,” Garth said.
Dean continued. “And of the ones you brought home, how many stayed savage and had to be killed?”
Garth hesitated before answering.
“Three.”
“So out of twenty-three werewolves you’ve encountered, only four are still alive.”
“Dean…” Sam said, but Dean ignored his brother and went on.
“That’s not a lot. And you think there are at least five werewolves where we’re going. Even if a couple are willing to listen to you, the rest are going to rip your throat out as soon as you open your mouth.” Dean almost added, And I can relate to that, but he managed to restrain himself. “I say we go in guns blazing, and if any of the werewolves are still alive when we’re done, then you can talk to them.”
“Because the only good monster is a dead one, right?” Garth said bitterly.
Garth began to softly growl, and Dean felt a sudden chill. He was ready to reach for his Colt, which was currently in the glove box along with Sam’s gun. Emotionally, he believed that Garth would never hurt him or Sam, but intellectually, he feared he couldn’t take that chance. But before he could move, Garth jumped out. The Impala was doing forty-five, but Garth hit the ground, rolled once, and came up gracefully onto his feet.
Dean slammed the brakes, and the Impala skidded to a halt in the middle of the road.
In the crimson glow of the car’s brake lights, Dean could see anger and hurt on Garth’s face. Then Garth transformed and loped into the woods where he was quickly swallowed by the night.
Dean turned to Sam, who was scowling at him. He sighed.
“Yeah, I know. I’m a dumbass.”
* * *
Melody sat on the floor of her living room, leaning against the couch and typing on her laptop. When she’d sat down to work, she’d told herself she’d only do so for an hour or two, then maybe have a glass of wine and watch some TV to unwind. She lived alone, and so when she worked at home she usually lost track of time and stayed up way too late. She needed to be better about getting a full night’s sleep, both for her mental and physical health.
Who am I kidding? she thought. Relaxing wasn’t her thing. She was an admitted workaholic, and it was a rare moment that didn’t find her writing a story for the paper, whether literally typing one up or trying to brainstorm ideas and composing articles in her head.
So I love what I do. Sue me.
While she liked her little office downtown, she much preferred working at home. She owned a small two-bedroom house in one of Bridge Valley’s nicer neighborhoods—no rehab clinics on her block—and while the second bedroom was nominally her home office, when she was at home she did most of her work in the living room. It felt cozier, especially when she had a fire going in the fireplace. She wore a pair of fuzzy pajamas and slippers, and she did have a glass of wine on the coffee table next to her computer, so at least she was relaxing a little, right?
She’d promised the FBI agents and the sheriff that she wouldn’t publish anything about Amos Boyd’s murder before she got the go-ahead from them, but she liked to be prepared. This way, when she got permission to publish, she’d be ready to go.
She was well aware that this story—coming so soon after Clay Fuller’s death—would garner a lot of media attention. How could it not? The witness to a murder allegedly committed by three “animal people” was killed in a horrific fashion only a few days later. The situation was absolutely bizarre, and such stories appealed to people’s morbid curiosity. Plus, there was an element of conspiracy to it. It was reasonable to assume that Amos was killed to silence him. Add to that three men claiming to be federal agents who’d come to town to investigate Fuller’s death, and now Amos’s. The whole thing was a bona fide mystery.
Melody enjoyed working at The Bridge Valley Independent, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend her entire career there. She wanted to live and work somewhere exciting, and this story would help her achieve that goal. Part of her felt guilty for exploiting the deaths of two people solely to advance her career, but someone was going to write about these murders, so why shouldn’t it be her? She’d already written a story about Fuller’s death, and she knew she could pull bits and pieces from it to recycle for this new article. What she was struggling with was how to write about the agents and following them to Amos’s house. She wasn’t used to putting herself into a story.
It was five minutes after nine when she heard the back door burst open. Startled, she tried to jump to her feet and banged her knees against the underside of the coffee table. She managed to stand without knocking anything else over and ran to the fireplace. She grabbed a metal poker, and turned to face the entryway to the kitchen. There was a full moon out tonight, and enough light filtered in through the windows to reveal the silhouette of a person. Whoever it was stood still, features hidden, save for a pair of eyes that glowed with yellow light. Those eyes terrified her to the core of her being. She could feel them sizing her up, deciding how much effort it would take to bring her down. She felt frozen to the spot, unable to move, afraid to even breathe.
This must be what an antelope feels like when it realizes it’s being stalked by a lion, she thought. The antelope must believe that if it stands still long enough, maybe the lion won’t see it. Then the lion will move on, and the antelope will avoid death for one more day.
She didn’t think she was going to be that lucky.
She heard the figure’s breathing, a heavy animal sound, and then it
began to growl. She knew then that whatever this thing was, it wasn’t human. Still holding onto the poker, she ran for the front door.
She only managed to take three steps before whoever— whatever—had broken into her house raced into the living room, grabbed hold of her wrist, and spun her around. Her first thought was the thing was damn fast. Her second thought was it was a monster—yellow eyes, sharp fangs, long curving claws. Her third thought was the intruder was Alan Crowder. Which wasn’t possible. Alan was human. He couldn’t be a monster.
Could he?
It came to her in a flash then. Alan was connected to the animal people that had killed Clay Fuller and likely Amos Boyd too. More than connected; he was one of them. And she’d called him after leaving Amos’s home, letting him know what she’d learned. And evidently Alan had decided she’d learned too much.
She tried to pull free of his grasp so she could swing her makeshift weapon at him, but his fingers clamped around her flesh and bone like iron, and she couldn’t move her arm. It was at that moment when she knew she was going to die. No more late-night work sessions at home. No chance for a better job in a bigger city. No more glasses of wine.
Alan’s lips drew back from his fangs in what might have been a snarl or a smile. Perhaps, she thought, it was a little of both.
He rammed his free hand into her chest with astonishing strength. She felt his claws cut flesh, break ribs, and take hold of her heart. Then he pulled it from her chest in a spray of blood. She had just enough life left to hear his howl of triumph, then she collapsed to the floor.
* * *
Garth had described the werewolf pack’s house well enough that the brothers knew what to look for: a two-story house on a large expanse of land, no close neighbors, about two miles from Amos’s place. Sam was confident they’d locate it. The question was whether they’d find it in time to help Garth. Then again, maybe he didn’t need their help. Without meaning to, they’d been treating Garth as a kind of goofy sidekick rather than a hunter in his own right. He’d been making contact with other werewolves for a while now. Maybe they should give him the benefit of the doubt.
“When we get there, I think we should give Garth some time to talk with the werewolves before we bust in and start shooting,” Sam said.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Dean said. “Garth’s only one guy, and he’s going up against a pack.”
“A small pack,” Sam said.
“He’ll still be outnumbered.”
Sam couldn’t argue that point. “Even so, we need to trust him on this.”
“Why?”
Sam didn’t have to think about his reply. “Because he’s family.”
Dean grimaced, an expression Sam knew well. Dean made the same face every time he was going to do something that went against his better judgment.
“Fine. We’ll give him ten minutes.”
“Fifteen?”
“Ten,” Dean said firmly.
Sam knew this was as good as he was going to get from his brother, so he nodded.
“And we’ll just have to hope Garth doesn’t get torn to shreds while we sit around twiddling our thumbs,” Dean said.
Sam knew how Dean felt. He didn’t like hanging back any more than his brother did. But you had to take chances when you were a hunter. Sometimes you had to give them too.
The Impala glided down the road, headlights slicing through the darkness. Sam gazed out of the passenger-side window and thought about another time when he and Dean had taken a chance. It had turned out far differently from what either of them had expected.
SIXTEEN
Near Seattle, Washington. 1992
Sam didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because when he opened his eyes the TV was off and the motel room was dark.
Someone’s at the door, he thought.
Then he heard knocking. The sound was soft, as if whoever it was didn’t want to wake any people staying in nearby rooms. Sam recognized the rhythm of the knocking. Three slow, three fast. It was Bobby.
Dean was up and moving before Sam could get out of bed. He quickly unlocked the door and Bobby staggered inside. He slumped against the wall to steady himself, and he might’ve fallen if Dean hadn’t reached out. Bobby’s face was ashen, and the right arm of his army jacket was covered with blood.
“Get me… onto bed,” Bobby gasped. “And… watch the arm.”
Sam hurried forward to help Dean, and together the two of them steered Bobby to Sam’s bed. Bobby collapsed and rolled onto his back, wincing in pain. Dean tried to get him to sit up enough so he could get his jacket off, and Sam closed and locked the door. Dean managed to get Bobby’s left arm out of its sleeve, and when Sam saw how badly wounded Bobby was, his breath caught in his throat. Bobby’s arm had a trio of long gashes running from his bicep to the inside of his forearm. Sam couldn’t tell how deep the wounds were because they were bleeding too badly.
“Get a towel!” Dean shouted, and Sam ran into the bathroom, grabbed a rough white towel, and rushed back to the bed. Dean snatched the towel from Sam and pressed it against Bobby’s injuries. Bobby took in a hissing breath, but he didn’t cry out. Sam was impressed by how brave Bobby was being. Later, Bobby would tell him the only reason he hadn’t shouted from the pain was because he’d been wounded so many damn times in his life, he was used to it by now.
“Get the first-aid kit,” Dean said. Blood was soaking through the white towel, turning it red, and the sight made Sam’s stomach do a flip. He tore his gaze from the widening crimson stains and ran to get the kit.
For the next half hour, Sam and Dean tended to Bobby’s injuries, following his instructions. At times it seemed he might pass out, but he managed to remain conscious. While they worked, he told them what had happened, pausing now and then to catch his breath.
“By the time I got to the hospital the rain had let up, which I appreciated. I hate sitting a stakeout in the rain. I parked in the visitor lot and starting walking around, keeping an eye out for hospital security. Last thing I needed was to have rent-a-cops haul me in for taking a nighttime stroll on hospital grounds. And I didn’t want to answer any questions about why I was carrying a gun loaded with silver bullets in my jacket pocket.
“I must’ve walked for several hours, but I only had to duck security once. It was getting cold, and I was starting to think the werewolf had moved on to other hunting grounds, when I heard growling. The lot was almost full, and there were plenty of places for a werewolf to hide. Too many. I was heading toward one of the lot’s fluorescent lights so I could better see the damn thing when it came at me.”
Bobby paused in his story to take a sip from his flask. Once fortified, he continued.
“Little good that did me. The werewolf came at me so fast all I saw was a blur out of the corner of my eye. I managed to step to the side in time to avoid being gutted like a fish, but I still got tagged.”
He nodded to his injured arm. By this point, Sam and Dean had cleaned the wounds—which turned out not to be as deep as Sam had feared—and Dean was now in the process of stitching up the gashes.
Normal kids don’t do stuff like this, Sam thought. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Part of him liked being able to do things most kids couldn’t, but another part of him resented having to take on so much adult responsibility so soon.
Bobby continued his story.
“The werewolf hit me so hard, I spun around and nearly fell. I managed to draw my gun, and just as the werewolf was coming at me again—straight on this time—I got a shot off. The thing let out a loud yelp, and instead of attacking me, it veered off and ran away. I don’t know how badly I wounded it, but it was able to keep running at full speed, so I knew I missed the thing’s heart. The wound won’t heal right away since it was caused by silver, but it won’t be fatal. Since the werewolf got hurt in the parking lot, it’ll probably go looking for a new hunting ground. Tonight’s the last night of the full moon’s cycle, which means someone else will
have to die next month before we learn where the thing has set up shop.”
Bobby couldn’t tell them much about the werewolf’s appearance. It had moved too swiftly for him to make out any distinct features. It was an adult and it was wearing a shirt and pants, but that was all Bobby knew. He wasn’t even sure what gender it was. After the werewolf fled, Bobby had managed to return to his truck and drive back to the motel—“Bleeding all over my damn seat”—and stagger to the door of their room.
When Dean finished playing doctor, Sam handed Bobby several prescription pain pills from the supply in the first-aid kit. Sam had no idea how hunters like Dad and Bobby managed to get their hands on prescription meds, but they did. He’d asked Dad once, and John Winchester had smiled and said, “You need all kinds of friends when you’re a hunter.”
Bobby swallowed the pills and chased them down with another pull from his flask. He then sighed, handed the flask to Sam and lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
“I did the best I could, Bobby,” Dean said, “but we should get you to a hospital and have a real doctor fix you up.”
Dean sounded unsure, even worried, and that surprised Sam. He was used to Dean being the always-confident older brother, but if he was worried, then the situation had to be even worse than Sam feared.
Bobby spoke without opening his eyes. “You did good. And I’ve been stitched up on the fly more than a few times. I’ll be all right as long as I get a chance… to rest.”
A few moments later, Bobby’s breathing deepened, and Sam knew he’d fallen asleep.
The boys cleaned up as best they could. They threw the blood-soaked towel in a dumpster outside, and they did their best to scrub out the bloodstains on the carpet. They couldn’t do anything about the bedclothes Bobby lay on, which were also bloodstained. Later, when he was up and moving around, they’d strip the bed and throw the blankets and sheet into the dumpster as well.
When they were finished, it was past midnight. Both of them sat on the other bed and watched Bobby as he slept.