sammy winchester the chubby 12 year old (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
174) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
holdmypoodle2014-07-07 02:12 am
174) wrote in holdmypoodle2014-07-07 02:12 am
But with the beast inside;
It's not easy to track because it seems to know when it's being tracked. There's no mistaking the signs: A series of bodies strewn (cleverly, at least) across a few states, hearts removed, bodies mauled. Nobody's made a connection because there's not much connection to make, other than the similarities in their deaths.
'Animal attack,' he's heard more often than he's heard anything else, and it's starting to become a lot more difficult to contain his eye rolls.
It's different, not hunting with his brother. It's different not having that connection, that supreme and faultless backup that he knows will be behind him if he's in trouble, that he knows will come if he calls his name. Hunting on your own requires much more self-reliance than Sam's had in a long time, a keen awareness that he's had to learn because it doesn't come as innate to him as it does for Dean. Maybe it was all the years off. Maybe he's just not as good of a hunter. He really ought to be sticking to his books, sometimes.
California leads to Washington leads all the way to Minnesota leads to Connecticut, and it's there that he finally (finally) picks up a trail that's something other than a dead body. It must have a nest, somewhere in the area. Even monsters need their beauty rest.
It turns out to be some ramshackle house out in the more rural areas, up where the hills are high and the air is thin, woods aplenty for it to prowl throughout and just enough people nearby to have its pick of prey. Sam is armed, both with a pistol and a silver knife, but there's a sense of foreboding when he slips his way in through one of the broken windows. Like he's not going to make it out of this fight alive. Paranoia's getting to him. He's been on this case too long.
no subject
No, the lying doesn't work. She tries locking herself up and that doesn't work. She tries isolation and that almost works, until the moon. More running and then this time, this time she tries her best to find something as far away from people as she can. She chains herself to the remains of an old iron stove and closes her eyes tightly and hopes over and over and over that this time, this time she has it beat.
She does, sort of. She changes and the chains dig into her skin and the stove squeaks when she pulls and her screams and then roars should be enough to scare away anyone who comes. It's a miracle to her that the chains hold and even though she doesn't feel the pain of the change, the exhaustion hits her like a ton of bricks every single time.
The sound of boots on glass filters through to the makeshift kitchen and Cass curls in on herself, hopeful that whoever is there will either leave or just do it, kill her, stop her for good. Anything would be better than this.
no subject
Something's not right here.
He doesn't know what it is exactly. Whether she has some kind of master that's been letting her out to kill, whether someone else has figured out what she is and left her here for dead - he doesn't know, he doesn't know. The gun doesn't drop, but his steps do pause in the doorway of the kitchen. He keeps a safe enough distance away that she can't claw at him, can't reach him.
"Looking a little pale over there," he remarks lightly, frowning over the barrel of the gun. He can't say he's not phased by her nakedness, but it's hardly the most important thing about the situation right now. Christ, all the scars - "Cusp of the full moon, I guess not getting out didn't do you any good at all."
He assumes the worst, and so the worst comes out; a bit of nastiness in his tone.
"You must be feeling pretty hungry right about now."
no subject
Drugs from Cain, maybe. Something to keep her docile enough that she slept straight through it all only to wake up tired and covered in bruises she didn't remember getting and no explanations. Maybe the fact that things only got this bad after she finally got the courage to run away from him should clue her in, but it doesn't. It hasn't yet, anyway. Maybe someday.
For now, she winces and pushes herself behind the stove a little more, weak enough that she knows she stands no chance against him. When he asks if she's hungry her stomach lurches, threatening to expel her last meal - a cheap burger, thank you. But she gets a handle on it, lifts her face to look at him with hope in her eyes.
"Are you here... to kill me?"
no subject
A plan that he's slowly starting to second-guess the more he assesses the situation. More than anything, he goes with his brain on most of all issues - it's smarter that way, hiding in logic - but there's a certain, visceral, gut instinct that any hunter worth their salt is going to have. The poor ones just end up dead. The bad ones just kill indiscriminately. Sam doesn't find himself in either of those categories, but he's never had the full information on this case from the get-go.
She looks hopeful about it. She looks pleased, as if he's about to put a sad, sick, old dog out of its misery.
The gun drops but only a tick as she starts to curl more into herself like she is, chained to a freaking stove of all things. This house is ramshackle. He wonders when the last time she ate was. It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. But it does kind of matter. "But now would be a really good time to tell me why I shouldn't."
no subject
The only permanent fix is standing in front of her and he's lowering his gun.
"You should," she says quietly, even as she cowers from him. "Stick to your plan."
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Which is probably the reason for the hesitation. Dean would have pulled the trigger by now. Probably. Maybe. Sam isn't Dean, regardless, and so he has to ask:
"What happened to you?"
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Maybe she's finally gotten lucky.
"Very bad people." She sits up a little bit more, rubs at where the chains are scraping her wrists raw. "Bad men who... make bad mistakes."
no subject
That's all she's made to do, and she should have a bullet in the heart already.
Her wrists are red like she's been struggling against them and it twinges at something within him whether he likes it or not. She just looks very sad, very lost. It's hard to kick a wounded dog without feeling like a monster yourself.
"You already know that." And that twinges at him too, that she feels all the death she's caused and knows what pain she's wrought onto others. It's a familiar case all over again and it makes pulling the trigger really, awfully difficult. "You want to be put down like a dog, is that how you want your story to end?"
tags from bed shhh
She trails off there because he'll know how that sentence ends. She's been free such a short time, there is still so much to do and here she is, naked and chained up on the floor of an abandoned house, starting to shiver because now her fur is gone.
hdu. hdi.
She's dangerous, she's dangerous, he keeps repeating that to himself. It's a mantra to get him through it, and he really does know this is some kind of finality for her. Nobody should go out this way.
"But you know you're going to hurt somebody as soon as you get out of here," he tells her gingerly, compassion bleeding into his voice.
hdeveryone
"I don't want to," she tries to speak as strongly as she can so he'll hear her clearly and won't come any closer, but with the tears making her throat close up and the way she's shaking, it's hardly more than a whisper. "Don't want to kill. I never did."