Season Four

Episode Three: Tastes Like Chicken

By Tree

Part Two

Outside Mingo, West Virginia

Dean poked absently through the pantry of the crappy little kitchen. He shivered unconsciously, his stomach twisting as he saw the mouse droppings on the shelf and cockroaches skittering as he disturbed some trash on the floor with the toe of his boot.

“This chick served my food?” he mumbled. And on any other night, you would have come home with her too. Think about that…

“I really need to work on my taste in woman,” Dean mused, his nose wrinkling as he spotted something that resembled a leftover piece of raw meat. Funny, Shelly hadn’t struck him as a steak tartare kinda girl.

Concluding the blonde was only a slightly better waitress than she was a housekeeper, he was heading for the backdoor to have a look outside when a loud commotion and Sam’s voice called his attention to the rear of the house.

“Shelly… stop…”

Spurred by his brother’s tone and the loud screeching of a woman, Dean charged from the kitchen. Rounding the corner, he spotted Sam sprawled beneath the blonde, her legs on either side of his brother’s chest while her breasts hovered scant inches from Sam’s face. Under other circumstances, Dean might have thought his brother was just getting “hooked up” with the buxom waitress. Then again, this was Sam Winchester and Sammy rarely, if ever, got “hooked up”, much less in broad daylight and in the middle of a hallway in some backwoods, Deliverance-inspired cabin. As if that wasn’t reason enough for Dean to be suspicious, there was the fact that said “hook up” was currently trying to tear Sam’s throat out.

Still, Dean wasn’t above giving his brother a moment of grief over the rather risqué situation he found the younger man in. “Really, Sammy? There’s a bedroom down the hall. Haven’t I taught you better than this?” he teased, moving rapidly forward.

Sam gasped in reply, his struggle to keep Shelly’s teeth from sinking into his flesh consuming all his energy. With the .45 still gripped tightly in his hand, Dean briefly considered the weapon as he quickly took in the scene. Despite the threat to his brother, he couldn’t bring himself to employ lethal force on the woman, especially not knowing what the hell was going on. Instead, tucking the automatic into the waistband of his jeans, he grabbed a handful of Shelly’s hair and a fistful of her blouse and forcefully pulled her off of his brother.

She peeled away from the younger Winchester like a tick embedded in a coonhound, screaming and thrashing the whole way. Dean dodged her flailing hands and bare feet, scarcely maintaining a grip as he lifted her up and unceremoniously tossed her through the open door to his right. Before she could recover, he grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed, trapping her inside.

“Sammy, grab a chair from the kitchen! Quick!” he shouted, struggling to hold the door as the crazed woman quickly began raging against the inside.

Dazed but spurred on, the young hunter complied, rapidly returning and jamming the top of a dilapidated Shaker-style chair underneath the knob as Dean jerked his hands away at the last second. They backed away reluctantly, both carefully eyeing the door, warily watching to see if the rickety plywood would withstand Shelly’s frenzied pounding. When it looked as though it would hold, Dean grabbed Sam by the jacket sleeve and pulled him toward the front door.

Once outside and resting against the relative sanctuary of the Impala, Dean’s hands rapidly glossed over Sam’s face and upper body, assessing any damage left from the young man’s encounter with the psychotic waitress. Other than an already bruising eye and a split lip, he seemed none the worse for wear.

“What the hell was that about?” Sam asked, brushing off his brother’s examination.

“Maybe you shoulda left a bigger tip last night,” Dean joked.

Sam threw him a dirty look, his gaze returning to the house. “Do you think she was on drugs or something? Maybe she had some sort of mental breakdown?” he mused.

Dean rubbed his jaw where one of Shelly’s flying fists had glanced off. “I dunno, but she sure was packing one helluva right hook. Maybe this is just what happens when your momma marries her brother?”

Sam huffed. “We’re not back in Hibbing, dude. You saw her. She was fine last night and now today…”

Dean shrugged, looking down at his watch. “Whatever. We came and checked on her. She’s alive and breathing… demented, but breathing nonetheless. I say we file this under “not our problem” and put West Virginia in the rear-view mirror as fast as possible.”

He knew Sam wasn’t moving even as he pulled open the Impala’s driver’s side door and elicited the Chevy’s characteristic loud metal screech. Dean looked back before dropping into the seat, mentally groaning as he spotted Sam worrying at the edge of a fingernail.

“You coming?”

He watched as Sam took another look back at the decrepit house, his hesitation clearly declaring what was going through his head.

“We just can’t leave her like that,” Sam stated after a moment.

“I could put a .45 in her melon,” Dean jokingly suggested.

“That’s not funny, Dean. Come on, be serious. We gotta get her some help.”

Dean sighed. “Alright, but no way is Psycho Shelly getting in the Impala; not unless you have a couple of tranquilizer darts in your back pocket. And since I’m not thinking that there’s anything resembling 9-1-1 way out here, what’s the plan, Mother Teresa?” he demanded sarcastically.

“Uh… we could head into town? Even if there’s no hospital, maybe there’s a clinic or doctor’s office. We could get someone to come out and check on her. It’s the right thing to do.”

“And we’re back to that again, huh?” the older hunter bemoaned.

Dean recoiled slightly as Sam whirled around and looked him dead in the eye. “You’re seriously okay with just taking off and leaving her like that?” Sam demanded, anger tingeing his voice. “You wouldn’t lose any sleep if we just headed to Colorado, wouldn’t think twice about what happened here today?”

“Dude, we’ve got bigger problems of our own to deal with don’t you think? Why do we always have to put other people’s issues ahead of our own? Maybe just for once, we think about us?” Dean threw back, his own green eyes wide and pleading. “Besides, this isn’t even our kinda gig.”

He tried not to lose his temper when Sam shook his head in disgust. How ironic that just a couple years ago, their roles had been reversed; Sam angrily arguing that nothing came before finding their missing father while Dean steadfastly insisted that John Winchester was alive and well and would be found in all due time. Along the way, they hunted every evil creature they came across and saved every innocent soul they could.

But that was then. And back then, their father hadn’t been left behind in some disappearing gateway to Hell… Dean quickly reminded himself.

Dean looked down at his watch again, making no effort to hide his impatience and irritation. With a snort of air, he acquiesced, knowing there’d be no winning with Sam until the younger man felt they’d exhausted every effort to help the girl. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care, just more that he was focused on points west and not getting tied up with a mentally-imbalanced hash-slinger; at least not when their dad was lost in some Hell-realm, suffering unfathomable torment.

“Fine, let’s get going then,” Dean grumbled, shaking his head as Sam almost gleefully bounded to the car. “I just want to point out this in no way means that you won.”

“I know,” Sam replied smugly, pulling the passenger’s door closed. “I’d never think that.”

***

They drove down the mountain road until they reached the crossroads that split Route 219, one branch twisting down toward Mingo while the other indicated nine miles up to the Goodwell mines. Following the blacktop into town, the two-lane was dotted with modest houses and the occasional farm.

The village of Mingo was barely more than a blip on the map, a small conglomeration of businesses covering two and a half blocks that started with a Post Office at one end and concluded with a tiny grocery at the other. In between, Dean noted a thrift shop, a diner, a hardware store, a pharmacy and Randolph County Sheriff’s substation; the latter stealing away the hunger pangs that had been gnawing at his stomach since their hasty departure from the truck stop earlier.

“I’m not seeing anything resembling Rampart here, Sammy,” Dean snarked. “What do you propose we do now?”

The short-haired hunter gazed out the Chevy’s window as he waited for his brother’s reply. He watched as a few locals ambled about the sidewalks, their expressions strangely blank, faces lined with age and worn by the struggle to survive under the poor conditions in mining country. Every so often, one of them would cast an eye skyward, glancing at the gray clouds gathering overhead and threatening to add rain or worse to an already dismal day, only to just as quickly dip their gaze back down and continue on their way.

Dean wasn’t really sure how much more depressing life in this area could be. Wasn’t it enough to be dirt poor, relegated to a life handed down by your father, and his father before, with little hope of escape? A life filled with wondering if there would be food on the table or if dad might make it home from the mines?

In his own way, Dean understood the weight of that lifestyle. Was it really any different than his own? Growing up, food always seemed scarce and variety was a concept as foreign as going for pony rides at a fair. But they survived, much like these people did. That didn’t mean that there weren’t plenty of days when PB&J sandwiches became meals; and even then that was only accomplished by picking the green spots off the remaining pieces of bread. It also didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of times that Dean didn’t sit in some nameless motel room, wondering not when, but if, their dad was going to walk back through the door.

“Earth to Dean…”

“Huh… what?” Dean stuttered, blinking rapidly and glancing over at Sam.

“I said, maybe we should try the Sheriff’s office,” Sam repeated.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he yanked the steering wheel to the right, pulling the Impala to the curb and stopping the black Chevy abruptly. He ignored the expletive Sam muttered as the lanky Winchester rubbed at bruised knees; Dean simply didn’t care. Throwing the gearshift up into park, he spun sideways in the seat.

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind? Did that chick bash that over-sized brain of yours in?” Dean asked incredulously. “You want us to just waltz into the Sheriff’s office and say what? ‘Excuse me officer, but we went out to some waitress’ place, busted in, found her stark raving cuckoo for friggin’ Coco Puffs, and left her locked in the bathroom’. Oh and by the way, don’t mind the fact that we’re wanted in several states for several felonies.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little overly dramatic about this, Dean…”

“Overly dramatic?” Dean cried out, exasperated by his brother’s patronizing tone. “Are you willing to risk playing ‘hide the soap’ with some dude named Bubba just so Shelly can bounce around a padded room? Just where does ‘it’s the right thing to do’ end for you, Sammy?”

“Dean, relax. First of all, this place is so freakin’ backwoods, I doubt they even know how to spell F.B.I. much less worry about who’s on the Most Wanted list. And second, it’s not like you’re still wanted in St. Louis anymore. Guevara took care of all that, remember? We can just tell whoever’s inside the truth about last night and that we just wanted to check on Shelly this morning. We found her that way and decided to report it; end of story.” Sam explained simply.

The elder Winchester sighed deeply, letting go of his argument even though his body remained tense and his jaw was clamped tight enough that Dean was afraid his teeth might actually snap. He killed the engine without saying another word, nor sparing so much as a glance in Sam’s direction.

Scowling as he opened the door to the first drops of rain, he turned back to his brother and growled, “Let’s do this. But I’m warning you, the first hint that this is going south and I’m leaving your ass behind.”

“Sure you will,” Sam agreed with a grin.

They entered the little building just ahead of a downpour, Dean immediately grateful for the warmth. His eyes took in the entire place in one quick look; training and survival instincts kicking in as he checked out the structure for exits, threats and of course, the presence of law enforcement.

“Hey there, what can I do for ya’ll?” an overly cheerful voice asked.

Dean’s attention turned toward a dark-haired young man seated behind a desk in the corner of the room. Dressed in a tan shirt that bore a Randolph County Sheriff’s Department patch and a silver badge prominently displayed on his chest, the deputy who greeted the brothers looked as though he should have been chasing cheerleaders rather than lawbreakers.

Leaning towards Sam, Dean whispered, “You were right. Doesn’t look like Opie here is old enough to shave, much less have any real experience.”

Sam elbowed him painfully in the ribs, smiling as he stepped past Dean and extended his hand to the baby-faced deputy. “Hi! My name’s Sam, this is my brother Dean. We’re just passing through town.”

“Deputy Cash,” the young officer replied, returning the greeting. “How can I help you?”

Dean snickered. “Cash? Johnny Cash?” he asked, looking down at the man’s nametag.

The deputy’s head dipped and his face reddened slightly. “What can I say? Momma was a huge fan.”

“Guess it’s better than Sue,” Dean suggested, flashing a wide smirk.

The deputy had clearly been teased about the name for most of his young life and wasn’t about to take the bait. Instead, he thrust out his chest and nonchalantly slipped a thick, black nightstick into the loop at his belt as he drew closer to the counter, his eyes locked on short-haired hunter before him.

Dean noted the move, smiling generously, but not backing down. He knew in the right hands the baton could do some serious damage, but he hadn’t missed the fact the baby-faced kid carried no sidearm and all other weapons appeared to be locked up in a cabinet across the room.

“So,” Sam finally interjected, stepping up beside Dean and attempting to diffuse some of the building tension. “Like I said, we were just passing through last night. As we were leaving the truck stop on 219…”

“The Breakline Diner?” the deputy interrupted.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed and Dean rolled his eyes silently wondering if somehow another truck stop had miraculously appeared in the past twenty-four hours.

“Anyway, as we were leaving, some trucker was attacking one of the waitresses out back of the restaurant. My brother pulled him off and sent him packing. He checked to make sure the girl was alright and we left. This morning though, we heard she hadn’t shown for work, so we thought we’d check to be sure she was okay.”

“You talking about Shelly Palmer?”

“We didn’t exactly get her last name,” Dean added sarcastically.

“Lois out at the diner gave us her address. Place up on Ruckman Road?” Sam confirmed.

The deputy nodded. “Yep, that would be Shelly. She and I grew up together. Not like there’s any mistakin’ Shelly round these parts. One look at her… well… you saw her… you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” he said, barely containing a mischievous grin.

Dean chuckled and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, we noticed.”

“So, about Shelly…” Sam continued. “We got out to her place and when we heard a commotion inside the house, well, we kinda helped ourselves inside…”

“You broke in?”

“The door was unlocked,” Dean quickly asserted.

“The point of all this, deputy, is that Shelly wasn’t well. In fact, she seemed to be very … unwell.” Sam stressed, his brows pinched with frustration.

Dean hid his smile as he watched his brother’s growing irritation. Nothing was more comical than Sam trying to get a point across while everyone else was less than attentive. It had frequently been one of Dean’s favorite ways over the years to annoy his brother and seeing it in action with the deputy was simply priceless to the older man.

“I’m sorry, sir. Please… go on. What exactly was wrong with Ms. Palmer?” the deputy asked.

“We don’t know for sure, but she attacked us without cause. It was like she was on some powerful hallucinogenic or…” Sam paused.

“Or what?” the young lawman prodded.

“Or she was out of her stark raving mind,” Dean interjected. “Look, what difference does it make? We’re just here to let you know that the only place Shelly ought to be serving meals is the cafeteria at the local funny farm. Since you don’t seem to have a hospital or anything else resembling a medical facility, we’re letting you know. And now… we’re outta here.”

He finished with a flourished wave of his hand, exasperated by the sheer amount of time the whole ordeal had already eaten up out of the day. Catching a glimpse of Sam’s disapproving scowl, Dean ignored the dark look and started for the door.

“Please, sir. Wait one minute,” Deputy Cash called out.

Dean paused, but didn’t turn.

“Look, I really appreciate what ya’ll did here. You definitely went above and beyond. Would ya’ please just give me a sec to call the Sheriff? He needs to know about this and he might have a coupla’ more questions. Okay?”

There were a thousand good reasons to leave running through Dean’s mind, but Sam chose that moment to draw up next to the elder Winchester. Leaning in, the taller sibling voice whispered low in Dean’s ear.

“It’ll be more suspicious if we bolt,” he warned.

Dean groaned softly then turned, forcing an insincere smile to his face. “We’d love to help any way we could, Deputy Cash.

They waited to the side as the kid radioed his superior, calling out several times for the sheriff as he attempted to get a response over the two-way. Dean toyed with a lethal-looking letter opener that was resting on the counter as he listened to the deputy’s fruitless efforts.

“No word from the boss?” Dean asked, flipping the silver stiletto over in his hand.

“I… err… guess the sheriff must be busy up at Number 3…” the deputy stammered as he reluctantly hung the mic on the side of the radio.

“Number 3?” Sam queried.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, guess you wouldn’t know what I’m talkin’ about not being from these parts. Goodwell Mine number three. You probably passed the turnoff to it on your way back from Shelly’s. The sheriff went up there this morning, following up a report from the line boss yesterday afternoon that they were two men down at the end of last night’s shift. S’posedly, they went looking for the missing men but all they found was a lot of blood. Last I heard, Sheriff figured one of them boys killed the other, but they ain’t found no bodies yet.”

“Sounds like the residents of Pleasantville have gone off their meds,” Dean snarked.

“There’re miles of shafts in those old mines, a body could be about anywhere. It takes time to check,” the deputy continued, ignoring the hunter’s remark as he moved about the small office. “B’sides, you ever been down in a mineshaft mister? Ever been in something so dark and narrow that you swear you can’t get another breath in your lungs?”

Dean swallowed tightly. “Yeah, I’ve been there before,” he answered quietly.

The deputy unlocked the large weapons cabinet and pulled a Remington 12 gauge from the case. Grabbing a box of shells, the officer began loading shells into the weapon, pumping round after round into the shotgun.

Dean tensed visibly and took a half step back from the counter, only Sam’s larger frame preventing him from all-out bolting for the door. While he didn’t particularly see the young deputy as a threat, he was still less than thrilled about being unarmed and still hanging around to satisfy Sam’s need to be a good Samaritan.

“Okay, you boys ready?” the deputy asked, coming around the corner of the counter.

“Huh? Ready for what?” Dean replied dumbfounded.

“Well, honestly, I was kinda hoping that since you had already come this far, maybe you wouldn’t mind coming with me back out to Shelly’s,” the young man answered, his voice barely concealing a mix of desperation and something that resembled fear.

Sam’s booming “Sure” was already sounding before Dean could form the first syllables of protest. This wasn’t their problem, this wasn’t even the type of thing that they “made” their problem.

He followed them out the door, cursing under his breath and inventing new names for his brother to be used the next time they were in mixed company. Cringing as the cold mist struck his face, Dean grumbled again and drew his sleeve across his eyes.

This was crap. No… it was worse than crap. It was just plain stupid. They were wasting time, precious time and he was done with it. Striding angrily forward he caught up with his brother and roughly grabbed Sam’s arm. Pulling his brother off to the edge of the sidewalk, Dean released the tether on his pent up fury.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam snapped, jerking out of his brother’s grasp.

“My point exactly, Sam. What the hell are we doing here? We did what you wanted, now let’s hit the road,” Dean demanded.

“Is that an order?”

“No it’s not an order, you jackass. Why are you being this way? What the hell is so special about this friggin’ place that you want to put down roots?”

“It isn’t like that,” Sam refuted.

“No?”

“No!”

“Well, it sure seems like it. So why don’t you enlighten me. Why the hell are we stickin’ around and helpin’ out Dudley Do-right?” Dean pleaded.

He watched his brother; Sam’s hazel eyes hesitantly meeting his, the younger man’s expression a mixture emotions that Dean hadn’t counted on seeing.

“What? What is it Sam?”

“Saving people, hunting things… don’t you remember, Dean?” the dark-haired hunter suddenly threw back. “Isn’t that what Dad would want us to do?”

And that was it. If Dean had possessed any semblance of control, any form of regulator on his anger, any release-valve on the boiling kiln of emotions inside him, then those words thrown back in his face undid all of those safeties.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his side and he could feel his heart pounding so hard within his chest that Dean was sure it had to be audible to anyone within a city block.

“Well?” Sam pushed.

“You’re gonna use that?” Dean responded, his voice low and holding an edge he generally reserved for threatening enemies. “After all these years, after Georgia, and knowing where Dad is right now, you pull this on me?”

“Dean, you know Dad…”

Dean waved off any further comment from his sibling. “Save it, Sam. I already read the manual from cover to cover; I don’t need you to quote it to me. Let’s get moving before Opie there gets worried.”

He headed toward the Impala still fuming; hating that they were still in West Virginia, hating more that he’d allowed his brother to let them get involved in some small-town problem, and even more so, hating that deep down, he knew they were doing the right thing.

***

They followed the deputy’s rusted GMC back out to the blonde’s run-down house with Dean silently brooding the entire way. Pulling up the drive, the elder hunter remained with the Impala while Sam eagerly trailed behind the Randolph County officer up to the front door.

Dean leaned against the Chevy, his arms resting on the roof as he watched their approach. The house was silent, ominously so, and for a split second Dean couldn’t help feel a cold shiver course down his spine. He shook against the chill, chalking it up to the early winter that seemed to have settled across most of the country. At least the rain had ceased, but he hated the way the sun surrendered so early in the afternoon at this time of year. It made the days seem shorter, each one passing by too fast and marking yet another that he’d failed to rescue his father.

Dean sighed and turned his attention back to the action on the porch. The deputy knocked several times and Dean shook his head with chagrin. Obviously Enos hadn’t been paying attention when they told him they’d locked Shelly in the bathroom, he thought to himself.

“Shelly! Shelly Palmer! This is Randolph County Deputy Cash. Are you in there?”

The young man’s voice rang out clear on the cold West Virginia air. Yet despite being loud enough to be heard across three counties, it was obvious that no one inside the small abode was responding.

Dean was three feet away from the Impala when the deputy’s first attempt to kick in the front door failed with a resounding crack that might have been the wood or kid’s foot. The hunter barely stifled his laughter as he climbed the steps and stopped at Sam’s side.

The brothers watched together as the deputy then reared back and drove his shoulder into the solid oak of the door. Despite the worn and weathered appearance of the wood, it withstood the officer’s effort, bowing slightly but remaining in place.

The young man staggered away, obviously worse for wear but determined not to show it. He was preparing to have another try at the door when Sam intervened, offering assistance that was readily declined. They argued back and forth, Sam insisting, the deputy just as adamantly refusing.

Dean couldn’t stand it anymore. He stepped forward, moving between them and actually pushing both of them aside and out of his way. They both protested but he ignored them. With enough force borne of irritation and reinforced by his steel-toe boots, Dean kicked in Shelly Palmer’s front door like it was made of kindling; the frame reduced to a shower of splinters.

Stepping to the side, he motioned Sam and Deputy Cash inside with a smug smile. The officer entered first, having reclaimed his shotgun. Dean reached for the .45 he had tucked away inside his jacket, clearing it just as Sam was passing.

“What are you doing? Are you nuts?” his brother demanded in a hushed tone, pushing the gun back under the cover of Dean’s coat.

“He’s got one,” Dean protested. “Besides, I’m not going back in there with Psycho Shelly unarmed…”

“Dean!”

“Okay…okay…” the elder hunter acquiesced. “But I bet Deputy Enos there hasn’t ever dealt with anything worse than a drunk miner in his entire life.”

“Can we just play nice, Dean? Please?” Sam pleaded.

“Hey, this is your gig, Sammy. We’re all about the nice aren’t we?” Dean shot back sarcastically as he pushed past the taller man and into the house.

Inside, Dean saw that the young deputy was already carefully moving about the small abode in textbook police fashion, doing his best to search and clear each room. Starting in the kitchen, the hunter followed behind the kid, noting that little had changed since their earlier visit.

“Not exactly Martha Stewart is she?” Dean joked. But the deputy cast him an irritated glance that rivaled Sam’s best bitch-face and merely continued his canvas of the waitress’ house.

They moved past the living room and slowly made their way down the short hallway. Even from his perspective behind the kid’s body, Dean could see that the bathroom door was no longer closed.

He stopped abruptly and drew Sam’s attention to the open entry. His brother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as they both spotted the smear of red painted along the edge of the jamb.

“Hey Johnny, hang on a sec…” Dean warned a split second too late as the deputy pushed open the door.

“Dear… God… in… heaven…” the young lawman gasped, one hand flying to cover his mouth.

Dean pressed closer, trapping the poor kid in the close confines of the small space. The bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse, the tiny room splashed with dried patches of blood from ceiling to floor. If he hadn’t known any better, Dean would have thought that someone had turned on a shower nozzle filled with red food coloring, were it not for the bits of human flesh that tenaciously clung to the ceramic tile.

But the real giveaway, and ultimately the thing that sent Deputy Jonathan Christopher Cash of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department running from the house, was the semi-masticated, bloody hand lying on the floor beside the toilet.

“Hmmm, guess maybe she got hungry?” Dean quipped, pointing at the gruesome stump.

He chuckled as the deputy tore past him.

“Really, Dean, have a heart, huh?” Sam chastised him, looking back down the hall and grimacing as the sound of repeated retching reached their ears.

The elder hunter shrugged and continued surveying the grisly scene before him. The window above the shower was busted outward and other than numerous claw marks on the wood frame there didn’t appear to be any other signs of forced entry or exit.

“What the hell happened here, Dean?” Sam asked as he poked at the mangled hand.

“Shaving accident?” Dean offered as he perused the contents of medicine cabinet.

“Can you please be serious about this for a second? We weren’t gone that long and this…”

“You want an explanation? Call that Bones chick.”

“Do you think something could have gotten Shelly after we left?” Sam pondered, moving over toward the broken window.

Dean huffed. “Something? What could have gotten in here, Sam? You’re seeing a boogey monster where there isn’t one. This is just some whacked-out chick, end of story.”

“Whacked-out enough to do this to herself?” the younger man asked incredulously. “Come here, take a look at this, Dean.”

The older hunter followed his brother direction and glanced at the broken window. “Yeah, so? She smashed that out like everything else,” Dean muttered.

“Look outside, there’s blood on the sill and just below on the siding. She got out that way,” Sam stated with a smug tone that wormed its way under Dean’s skin.

“So she’s gone. Great! Can we go now too or do I have to gnaw off my own hand to get your attention?”

“Funny, Dean. But aren’t you even a little curious why she would do that?”

“Maybe it’s the whole wolf caught in a trap thing or maybe she mistook the PCP for the sugar in her morning coffee. Honestly, Sam, I don’t know and I don’t care. This isn’t a hunt, quit trying to make it one,” Dean snapped back.

“It looks like she chewed off her own hand and you think that’s remotely normal?” Sam challenged.

“No, I don’t. I think maybe good ol’ Shelly ain’t running on all eight cylinders; maybe her family tree don’t have many branches in it. Hell, maybe she’s even kookier than that freakin’ bird for friggin’ coco puffs. For all we know, maybe she just got really hungry and decided that her hand tasted like chicken, but you know what? I couldn’t give a damn. If she comes at me again, I’ll put a friggin’ hollow point in her melon,” Dean ranted, brandishing his cherished Colt for added emphasis.

Dean was ready for Sam’s rebuttal; knew it was coming as soon as he saw his brother’s sharp glare and heard the even sharper intake of air. But he was spared his sibling’s chastisement when the deputy suddenly reappeared in the doorway.

“Who the hell are you two?” the young man demanded, his shotgun leveled at Dean. “And what’s going on here?”

“Whoa! Easy there Opie!” Dean soothed, spinning his .45 around slowly so that the muzzle aimed toward the floor. “This isn’t what you think.”

“I don’t know what the hell to think,” Cash replied. “You just drop that weapon and back out this way nice and slow or so help me, I got no problem putting a slug in ya’ll.”

“Deputy, please,” Sam pleaded. “I swear to you, we have no idea what happened to Shelly. She was perfectly fine when we left her. Why would we have harmed her and then brought you back out here?”

“I don’t know,” the young officer replied, his eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between the hunters. “Maybe you just get your kicks outta messing with decent small town folk. Maybe ya’ll think you’re just too smart to be caught. Hell, maybe you figured on killing me too once ya’ got me out here.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” Dean groaned, still holding his ground.

“Well, you can protest all you want once we’re back at the station,” the deputy assured him.

Dean tensed, reluctant to relinquish his automatic and even more loath to allow the lawman to take them in to custody. Still, he was staring down the business end of a very lethal Remington, even if the deputy holding it was shaking like a leaf in a tornado. Having taken a chest full of rock-salt once, he had no desire to tempt fate with live rounds at point blank range.

“Okay, you win, we don’t want any trouble,” he submitted, easing the .45 to the floor while raising his left hand.

It was a ploy from the start and one that Dean hoped Sam would read and the deputy could not. In an explosion of movement, he went from nonchalantly placing his Colt on the floor to bursting upward, coming up underneath the barrel of the shotgun and grabbing it away from the young kid.

He had the weapon torn away from the deputy’s grasp and pointed at the officer’s chest before the young man could utter a protest. Dean tossed the shotgun to his brother and then stooped to retrieve his .45.

“You stupid ass,” he shot back at the kid. “Don’t be pointing a gun at someone unless you’re ready to pull the trigger.”

Dean spun the shaking deputy around, pushing him toward the living room and snagging the handcuffs from the holder on the back of the man’s belt. He was ready to lock them around Cash’s wrists when Sam grabbed his shoulder.

“Dean, hang on.”

“What now, Sam?” Dean growled.

He begrudgingly allowed his brother to pull him to the side, his eyes still cautiously watching the deputy.

“What are we doing here?” Sam asked, nodding toward the lanky officer.

“Geez, Sammy, haven’t I been asking that question since about nine a.m. this morning?” Dean fired back. “Now we’re half-way up crap creek, no thanks to your do-gooder heart, and you’re worried about Johnny there getting a little chaffed around the wrists?”

“That’s not it, Dean. Can you just stop being pissed-off at me for five minutes and take a look around. Something’s going on around here and if you weren’t so damn single-minded about Stull and Dad, you might actually see it,” Sam shot back.

Dean clenched his fist around the cuffs in his hand until the metal bit into his flesh. He wanted to punch something; he wanted to punch Sam.

…Base from Unit 4, you out there Johnny?

The squelch from the deputy’s walkie-talkie sounded loudly through the relative quiet of the empty house and startled the brothers.

… Unit 4 to base… Johnny… pick up dammit… Where are ya’, boy? All hell’s breakin’ loose out at Number 3…

The Sheriff’s voice was momentarily replaced by the sound of muted screams and determined curses.

… there’s blood everywhere … I need ya’ll to bring everything we got in the locker out here ASAP…

Dean shared a concerned look with his brother before glancing back at the panicked deputy. If the kid looked freaked before, then his face had now lost nearly all color.

“Whhaa… what are y-you gonna d-do?” Cash asked worriedly.

Dean was about to tell the young man that they weren’t going to do anything more than climb into the Impala and put the West Virginia state line in the rearview mirror as fast as the Chevy’s engine could manage when Sam spoke up.

“Look, we’re not gonna hurt you. We’re not the bad guys… we never were. There’s obviously something going on around here and we all just need to calm down for a second and figure out what we’re doing next,” the tall hunter calmly announced.

Reinforcing his point, much to Dean’s chagrin, Sam moved closer toward the still-wary deputy and slowly offered him back the shotgun. The officer accepted it cautiously, looking unsure as he glanced from the taller brother back to the still seething elder Winchester.

“I don’t understand what the hell is happening around here, but I need to get back to the station and then up to the mines. Maybe whoever got Shelly has something to do with whatever’s going on up there. It’s not that far between here and there after all,” Cash stated, straightening his shoulders and trying to feign more bravado than Dean knew he currently possessed.

“Whoever?” Dean mimicked, barely stifling a laugh. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? This chick chewed her own friggin’ hand off. This isn’t some Jeffrey Dahmer thing going on around here…”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice held a low warning to it. “Not helping. First things first, let’s get back to town and regroup.”

The deputy nodded, seeming all too eager to be away from the bizarre discovery of the Palmer house. Dean grumbled audibly, less than thrilled by Sam’s overt command of the situation. He knew he wasn’t in charge here and more to the point, he was acutely aware that Sam wasn’t about to budge and walk away from what he perceived to be a hunt.

So he shrugged and followed them out the door.

***

The phone was ringing non-stop when the threesome reached the office. The harried deputy tried in vain to answer all the calls, grabbing for one receiver while fumbling with another. Sam immediately joined in, dutifully answering the phone and jotting down addresses and complaints as fast as he could.

“Yes… he’s what?” Cash asked of the person on the phone, his brows pinched with concern. “Are you sure its blood? Has he hurt anyone? Alright… alright… don’t go near the rig. I’ll be out there as soon as I can.”

Dean hung back on the other side of the counter, grinning in amusement. It was like watching a comedy routine as his brother and the young officer attempted to keep up with the myriad of calls that were streaming into the sheriff’s office. It would have been hilarious if it hadn’t have been so serious and after a moment, even the elder hunter’s humor died.

Amidst the cacophony of ringing, the deputy’s two-way squealed again, the sheriff’s voice screaming out across the hiss of static and other more alarming background noises.

…John! John! Where the hell are you? I need you out here now, son. It’s a Goddamn bloody mess out here at Number 3… John… Come in… Where the hell are you at?

The sheriff’s voice cut off abruptly amid the unmistakable blast of weapons fire and then the two-way went silent. Dean looked over, noting that the deputy as well as Sam had ceased answering calls. In fact, the office had become ominously quiet.

Cash stood with a receiver held in his hand, his youthful face pale as he fought to control the panic pouring off him so heavily that Dean could almost smell it like a cheap aftershave.

“Seems like your little town is going to hell in a hand basket,” the elder hunter commented sarcastically.

The young man sighed loudly before throwing back his shoulders. “Mister, I don’t know what the hell is happening around here, but I do know if you aren’t part of the solution, and in this case, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like you’re part of the problem, whatever the hell the problem is, then you’re just making my life more miserable. Why don’t ya’ll just take off like you been want’n?”

Dean nodded with a wide smile, his hand slapping the dark oak counter. “Best idea I’ve heard all day. Let’s go, Sammy.”

“Dean, hang on,” Sam called out, not budging from his spot on the other side of the desk. “Deputy Cash, we can help you. I know you don’t trust us, but we can truly help you. Just like we told you back at Shelly’s place, there’s something really awful happening here in your town, and if I’m right, it’s just starting. Let us give you a hand.”

Dean rolled his eyes. There was just no end to the amount of bleeding his brother’s heart could apparently manage.

The deputy looked between them, obviously wary but equally smart enough to know that he had more on his plate than he could handle. He shook his head and handed a slip of paper to the taller Winchester.

“I gotta get out to Number 3, but one of those calls was from the Breakline Diner. One of their regulars, trucker named Bobby, is holed up in his rig. The cab is covered in blood and he ain’t answerin’. Think ya’ll could maybe check that out and see if he needs some medical help?” Cash asked hesitantly.

Sam nodded eagerly as the officer started toward him. “Just remember, medical help only. Do not get more involved than that. And you…” Cash paused, pointing at Dean. “I’ll take that fancy auto of yours. Can’t have you traipsing around town waving that thing around and scaring the daylights out of the good folk.”

Dean stared at him blankly, glancing over at Sam only briefly for his brother to offer some sort of salvation. But the deputy was unrelenting and his sibling offered no sympathy. With reluctance, he pulled the .45 from inside his jacket and watched as Cash turn and secured it inside the weapons locker across the room.

The young lawman retrieved extra shells and another sidearm before striding purposefully toward the exit. He paused at the doorway and turned back to face the brothers.

“Thanks again. Be careful. I’ll try to be back down as soon as possible. If you need medical help, the nearest ambulance can be called in from Weston. If the weather’s on our side, we can sometimes get a chopper out from Charleston, but don’t count on that. Here’s the spare two-way. Call me and I’ll radio for whatever you need.”

“We’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” Sam responded faithfully.

Dean grunted and tried not to glance back at the weapons locker. He watched as the kid darted out the door, waiting till he heard the deputy’s GMC fire up before he was back around the counter and working on the lock.

“Dean! What are you doing?” Sam nearly yelled.

“What’s it look like?” he growled back. “Not leaving without my favorite gun.

“I’m sure he’ll give it back when we’re done,” Sam continued, ignoring his brother’s comment.

“Not waiting. And I’m not going to play Johhny Gage to some drunk trucker either. You want to, you go. I’m outta here.”

“You’d seriously leave without me?” Sam asked.

“Yahtzee!” Dean shouted triumphantly, throwing open the cabinet door and grabbing his cherished Colt. “Yep! This is me leaving, Sam.”

“Fine! You know what? Just go, Dean. I give up. There’s something going on here and I’m going to figure it out, with or without you. It’s our responsibility to help these people,” Sam complained, exasperated. “You used to think that too.”

“Even before our own personal needs?” Dean demanded. “Before Dad?”

“Splitting up though? Burkitsville, Dean? That ring a bell?”

“It didn’t stop you from leaving then. Matter of fact, seems like you’ve left before when me and Dad needed you, Sammy. Stanford ring a bell?” Dean countered.

It was a low blow and he knew it the moment the words flew from his mouth, but the past weeks hadn’t been easy. Between leaving their dad in Stull, and nearly losing Sam to the watch, he was beyond mincing words. Still, the look on Sam’s face told him he’d gone too far and chosen to reopen a wound that had long ago healed.

“We can agree on one thing, Dean. Bad things happen when we separate,” Sam gently reminded him.

Dean grimaced, Sam had him there. Silently, he had to admit he’d never liked hunting alone. For that matter, he never liked being alone. For all his insistence that he was independent and self-sufficient, the truth was, he lived to keep his family together solely because he despised being alone. He had no more intention of leaving his brother behind than he had of leaving his father in Stull one second longer than necessary.

Allowing a thin smile to grace his haggard features, Dean easily slapped Sam’s shoulder good-naturedly.

“I still don’t buy that there’s a hunt here, Sammy. But I won’t leave your geeky ass behind. Let’s go rescue BJ and hopefully he doesn’t have a Bear…”

Sam looked at him strangely, confused by the reference. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head as he strode toward the waiting Impala.

Sammy might be a walking encyclopedia of weird, but he didn’t know squat about pop culture…

Breakline Diner and Truckstop

It was nearly dinner time when the brothers reached the diner, yet the place didn’t look as though business was booming. Dean pulled the Chevy into the lot, stopping when he saw the older waitress from earlier in the day standing near a short line of semis.

Parking the Impala, he and Sam climbed from the car and made their way toward the woman. She looked perturbed, hands on her hips, her hair disheveled, her uniform covered in a variety of food she’d been serving throughout the day.

“You two, again?” she snarled. “You ever find that no-account, Shelly? I had to work a double today because of her lazy ass.”

“Uh, well, you might say we sorta found her, ma’am,” Sam replied. “Deputy Cash sent us out here to help with your complaint.”

“Deputy Cash? Why’d he send you two?” she asked with a gravelly voice that betrayed years of cigarette smoking.

“Actually ma’am, we’re law enforcement as well,” Dean replied, flipping open a fake I.D. “State Investigators, just passing through, but Deputy Cash has his hands full with another situation so we told him we’d help out. Now, could you tell us where the rig is.”

The older woman eyed him suspiciously before pointing at a dark blue semi parked several feet away. She started walking toward the truck, leading the brothers as she spoke.

“Normally by now, Bobby would be up to Number 3 on his second run, dropping off timbers or picking up slag, but his rig has been sitting here since I came on shift this morning. I thought maybe he was sick, or drunk, so I came out a while ago to see if he needed something to eat. That’s when I saw all the blood,” she explained, pointing up toward the windshield.

Dean followed her motion. The glass was covered with brownish splatter, the gore nearly occluding the front like a red shade. As they moved around the side of the truck more of the dried fluid could be seen covering the metal on the fender, door and side of the cab.

“See?” the waitress exclaimed.” I yelled for him, but there wasn’t any answer. I don’t know if he’s inside, but I didn’t touch anything. If he’s in there, I don’t imagine he’s in good shape by the looks of all that.”

“Yes ma’am. Well, thank you, we’ll take it from here,” Sam replied, firmly pushing the older blonde back in the direction of the diner. “We’ll be back to ask you any further questions if needed.”

She nodded reluctantly, but slowly walked away. Once she was gone, Dean reached up and beat on the cab door, doing his best to avoid any of the gorier portions of metal.

“Hello, inside the truck… West Virginia State Trooper… open up!” he yelled. “Helllooo… Bobby… are you in there?”

When there was no response, Dean chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asked, perplexed.

“There’s just something hilarious about yelling for a trucker named Bobby,” Dean replied. “I mean, honestly, in any other circumstance, our Bobby could be a trucker, after all, he’s certainly got the vest and ball cap collection for it…”

“Dean… can we focus…”

“Yeah, yeah… this thing is locked,” the elder hunter replied, jiggling the door handle. “You pick, I’ll be ready to go in guns blazing,”

They worked fluidly, Sam effortlessly picking the lock on the cab as Dean waited, his .45 ready. Once unlocked, they pulled the door open, cautiously watching for attack. The smell was immediately overwhelming, pouring out from the interior and reeking of old blood, death, and decay. It was enough to make Dean’s lunch come back up, or would have, he thought, if he’d had anything to eat in the past twelve hours.

“That doesn’t smell like there’s anything alive in there,” Sam commented.

“Looking like a slaughterhouse doesn’t help either,” Dean added. “Probably need to get up in there and take a look though. Don’t suppose you want to shoot for it?”

“You’re the one with the gun already,” Sam pointed out. “Besides, I don’t want to point out the obvious, but uh, any chance I can get an “I told you so” in here yet?”

“Bite me, Sam. Still doesn’t mean this is a hunt yet. Still could be some whacked out serial killer,” Dean replied as he grabbed the pull bar on the side of the cab to haul himself up into the truck.

“Yeah, ’cause that’s the way it always works for us,” Sam shot back as he watched his brother’s body disappear into the shadows of the rig.

Dean forced back the bile that was rising in his throat. The smell and the semi-congealed blood and tissue that seemed to be smeared everywhere he touched was enough to make his stomach want to invert out his nostrils. He normally prided himself on being able to withstand even the rankest gore and vilest slop, but somehow this was just sensory overload.

Moving slowing through the tight confines of the cab something like a soft moan ebbed from behind the curtain that separated the sleeper from the front. While this portion of the truck was obviously empty, Dean knew that behind the thin material, there was plenty of space for any one or thing to be hiding.

He stole a quick glance behind him, spotting Sam on the last step just outside the cab. Motioning silently to his brother, he turned back to the curtain and slowly pushed it aside with the muzzle of the .45.

If the smell outside had been bad, then on the inside of the sleeper it was worse. Added to the odor of fresh blood, Dean could hear the sound of crunching.

No… gnawing. Like a dog chewing on a bone.

Dean strained to see in the near pitch-blackness of the sleeper. Only the briefest hint of light sneaked in from where he pushed aside the curtain and allowed him to see a shadow of a hulking figure tucked away in the corner of the space.

In the back of his head, Dean knew this was the missing Bobby, just like he knew that the trucker wasn’t snacking on a bucket of Kentucky’s fried. Before he could back out to tell his brother that Shelly had another long-pig snacking cousin, there was a loud growl and the ravenous mass lunged out of the shadows.

The hunter could smell the trucker’s rancid breath as sharp, bloodstained teeth snapped at his flesh. The huge man atop him was strong, but his movements were uncoordinated, allowing Dean to prevent the massive trucker from connecting with any of his clawing blows.

“SAMMY!” Dean shouted out desperately as he tried to pull his .45 up between him and the larger man.

Despite his best effort, the trucker was simply too large and the bigger man grabbed the hunter like he was little more than a sack of potatoes, throwing the elder Winchester back against the dashboard. Dean’s head hit the steering wheel, striking hard against the rigid metal.

He weakly shouted for Sam once more, dimly wondering where his brother had gone. Lifting his head, he looked up, eyes blinking as he struggled to remain conscious, his vision blurring as the trucker loomed over top of him.

As the big man leaned down, the hunter recognized him from the evening before. It was the same trucker who had attacked the waitress outside the backdoor of the diner, the same person who had bitten the young blondes’ arm… and now, the same snarling beast eager to tear off a mouthful of Dean’s flesh.

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The Winchester Chronicles