Tooth and Claw - Supernatural - 3/4
Title: Tooth and Claw
Artist: dreamingauthor
Characters: Sam and Dean, John
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: ~20000
Warnings: Minors using some adult language, violence
Genre: Wee/Teenchester, Casefic, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Alabama, 1994. After a hunt gone bloody, the Winchesters recover in a small town, where John picks up on a Big Cat hunt, and the boys find themselves at a new school, facing another animal legend, the Belgreen Bear.
Author's Notes: By my estimate, I've determined my setting to be Fall, 1994, with Sam being 11 and Dean, 15. I'm using some local legends, primarily the legend of the Belgreen Bear and the cryptid Big Black Cats of Alabama, for this story, and that means some of the places mentioned are real, but fictionalized for story-telling purposes. ~ Written for 2012's spn_gen_bigbang.
Prompt: "Depression" for the hc_bingo, Round 3
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Supernatural, and I am making no profit from this story.
Link to Art
Link to Story Masterpost
"It's a real bear. People have taken pictures and stuff."
Sam raised a skeptical brow at the girl sitting across the table from him, Selina-something with long black hair and a tiny nose. She went back to eating her mashed potatoes without noticing his disbelieving stare.
"Nuh-uh," her cousin Amanda insisted, tossing back her braid. "Uncle Jim just made that up to scare you-it was Timmy making those growling noises outside the Fall Festival last year. Everybody was laughing when you ran in screamin'-I can't believe you fell for it!"
Selina looked appalled by the accusation, her eyes shooting to the boy sitting at Sam's side. Sam was pretty sure Timmy was related to the bunch, too, but he didn't want to ask. Asking just made him feel more like an outsider.
Timmy snorted into his meatloaf. "That was so funny!" A second later, he stole the roll off of Sam's plate, a cocky grin on his face instead of a request for permission. "There ain't a bear," he announced, sagely.
Selina made a high-pitched whine and stood up, leaving the group, as if her dreams had suddenly been crushed. Amanda giggled and joined her, not bothering to give the boys a wave goodbye.
"But there used to be a bear," Timmy finally added, after he'd swallowed a chunk of bread. "That's what I heard. See, apparently, legend has it there was this circus caravan coming through, like forever ago, and it wrecked. Some of the animals got out, but they never caught the bear."
Sam hadn't heard that part yet. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uneasy, and offered up his juice carton to the other boy, to keep his attention. "How long ago?"
"Real long."
Sam was learning about research from his dad. He knew 'real long' was not enough to go on. "So why do people keep saying they've seen it?"
"Mostly it's just people scaring other people." He chuckled, obviously proud of himself for being a part of the tradition. "But, then, there's been a couple guys who saw it for real, I heard. Musta been a ghost or something-do you believe it ghosts?"
Sam's throat went dry. He swigged down half his milk. "Whatever," he said, with a shrug.
"Me neither." Timmy fidgeted, wiping his hands on his jeans. "But, I mean, if I did believe in ghosts, I'd believe in that one. 'Cause, one of the guys who saw it was in my big sister Gina's class, way back when. After he told everybody he saw it, he got so sick that his parents had to put him into the hospital. My uncle said the same thing happened to a guy in his class, way back in the seventies. Only my uncle said that guy never recovered-he mighta been makin' that up to freak me out, though."
Sam lost his appetite and dropped Timmy his cookie. "That's weird," he said aloud, managing to keep his voice steady, despite the way his insides were trembling like Jell-O on a dashboard. "Uh, I gotta go."
This was the third day since Dean had told him about the bear, and it had been two days since either brother had bothered to say more than, "where's my toothbrush" or "do you have lunch money" to each other. Sam had spent his extra time reading his book and helping Bernie pick collard greens from her garden, but he had no clue what his brother was doing with his afternoons. He'd just disappear a while, not even showing up at their rock or the grill.
The first afternoon, Sam had simply made a face and figured Dean was off kissing that Jerry Lynn girl, but by the second day, after Dean walked him home from school, then turned right back to disappear into the woods, he started to get worried. Their dad would get mad, like real mad, if he knew Dean was leaving without telling anyone. And he'd be even angrier to know that Dean wasn't even bothering to help him train.
But Sam could care less about those things. What really worried him was that Dean looked paler with each day, when he trudged in, pretended to eat supper, and fell asleep straight asleep as if he'd just run a marathon. Sam would peek a glance at him while he was sleeping; his cast was still alright, not soggy or cracked, and his fingers weren't even a little swollen, so Sam wasn't sure why his brother was sick.
Sam had asked, but Dean had shot just shot him a look. "What's it matter? You wouldn't believe me anyway. I'm fine, Sammy."
And Sam just figured Dean was acting like a butthead because he was sad about Christopher. It wasn't as if he was crying though-even Sam had cried when their dad told him what happened, but Dean had kept it together. Was still keeping it together. Sam thought that maybe that was what Dean was doing when he went to the woods…Maybe he figured Sam would make fun of him if he saw him crying over someone who wasn't family.
Only, now Sam was beginning to realize that assumption was probably wrong.
Sam knew he wasn't supposed to leave the cafeteria before it was time for the whole class to get up, but he snuck out anyhow. The hall just outside was empty. It led to another corridor that connected to the main u-shaped building, and Sam all but ran to it before he slid down to the ground, sitting just below window height where one corridor broke into another. No one would be using this hall for a while; older kids walked around to the main doors to their classes, and the little kids who marched it daily had already eaten lunch.
When he was alone, he drew his legs up to his chest, breathing into the worn knees of his jeans.
He hadn't believed Dean when he said he saw the bear, not even for a second. Dean loved pranks, even stupid ones, and he especially loved distracting anybody who was acting all 'touchy-feely', so Sam figured that's why his brother had been the boy who called bear. But what Timmy had said, about the guys getting sick afterward…What if there really was something in the woods? Something Dean was looking for. Something Dean was hunting.
By himself.
Sam felt pinpricks of heat light up behind his eyes, but he refused to get upset. Instead, he let his anger bubbled up-how dare Dean treat him like a baby, and not let him in on this! Not even tell Dad!
"So stupid!" Sam stifled the shout against his knees, but it didn't help any. He was practically shaking with frustration. His brother could have been killed if this was really some kind of spirit or monster.
A part of him wanted to march straight across the campus and pull Dean out of class, but he knew that wouldn't do any good. No, if he wanted to help his brother, the best thing he could do was figure out if there really was a bear here and what could be making Dean sick. He was almost certain Mrs. Queen would let him use the computer after school. And, once he figured out it was real, he needed to call Dad.
Nahuales, otherwise known as a Naguals. An ancient Aztec sorcerer who…
John's pen shot across the paper, jotting down the information. It had taken more than a few phone calls to various hunters, but he'd finally got a hit. After being told he was a dumbass for believing a witch was keeping a giant panther as a pet, of course. As it turned out, the witch was the giant panther. Which made some kind of sense. Apparently, someone with family roots way south of the boarder had conjured up an old hocus pocus that would let them, amongst other things, turn into a beast. One of the most common beasts? A jaguar. Another interesting detail about the Nahual? They were notorious for using their victims as undead servants, which explained why the late Widow Upchurch had been so keen to greet him.
John's mind hadn't quite jumped from North American panther to jaguar, but it was likely he wouldn't have noticed the difference even if he was looking, since it had been too far away and too dark to see the rosettes inside its black fur or notice the shape of its head when he'd spotted the creature a few nights past. The cat had been fast, and he hadn't been able to knick it, but he'd gotten close. And now that he knew what it was, he was certain it would come for him, so long as he put himself out in the open.
"Works for me," he muttered, and took a draw off his glass of whiskey.
His eyes were already reddened from sleepless nights, but there was no way in hell he was letting this cat get away. Nahuales were said to be good or bad- John was leaning toward the idea of them being bad-and they could shift into their chosen form and keep their will about them during the process. They weren't victims turned into raging beasts like werewolves. Which meant a person had chosen to murder Roden and the widow for some reason. It was looking like that reason was because the bastard couldn't get a loan. Of all the shit excuses to kill.
John shook his head. People were crazy. People who'd turned themselves into monsters were even crazier.
He tucked his notebook away. His weapons bag was already in the car. These things weren't particularly hard to kill-'take its head, ya idgit,' Bobby Singer had harped, before asking about the boys and getting no answer-and the hunt would come down to a matter of being on his toes. He'd put off returning to his kids long enough. This time tomorrow, he'd be taking them out for burgers, and trying to put a bit of the light back in Dean's eyes.
He slammed the motel door behind him, not hearing the phone ringing from the bedside table.
"So, I heard your Dad's been looking at the old Whitfield place. He looking to buy? Settle down and make you throw up a white picket fence?"
Dean snorted, dribbled the ball, then made a move around Christopher. He jumped for the shot-and Christopher elbowed him, forcing him back before he could take aim. The basketball bounced off the rim.
"I think that's called a foul, asshole."
"Funny, I think it's called winnin', Dean-o."
Christopher laughed at his expression and tried to make a move with the ball now that it was in his possession. Dean jumped up, slapping it back down to the ground before it could get anywhere close to the board.
"Well, I think it's called angry short people ribbing their betters," Dean said, smirking back.
"Dinner's ready, boys!"
The shout had come from Mrs. Robinson, who was standing in the doorway. Sam was right beside her, this hair covered in flour. Dean's brow lifted at that-how the hell…? And in that second of distraction, Christopher actually made a shot.
"Ha!" Christopher brushed his sweat-slickened hair back with one hand. "You were saying? About your betters?"
"Lucky shit," Dean snapped, but there was no heart behind it. He grinned ruefully. "Now that I know fouls don't count, I'm gonna kick your ass next time."
"Promises, promises." But Christopher grabbed him by the arm before he could disappear up the front steps to the Robinson house. "Hey, is your dad looking into that old place for another reason?" When Dean didn't answer immediately, Christopher's gaze narrowed. "I hear it's haunted-people keep trying to blame those disappearances on creepy shit so they don't have to face the idea that we have a psycho next door, so everyone's been talking crazy, bringing up places like the Whitfield house."
Dean forced a tight grin into place. "Dude, seriously? You think my dad's checking out a haunted house? Someone's probably trying to hire him to renovate the place. I told you, he does some construction on the side."
But something must have shown on his face because Christopher's mouth dropped open in surprise. This was the problem with knowing someone too well, those lies that were second nature around strangers didn't work quite as well after a while. Of course, Dean hadn't run into this particular problem much in the past, since he'd gone to damn fine efforts to keep away from normal happy-shiny-people crap, like making friends outside his family.
"Dude," Christopher breathed, "is your dad, like, one of those ghost hunters?"
Dean hesitated. There were two ways to play this, and neither of them involved the full truth. Dean knew only one of them would satisfy Christopher's curiosity, though. He'd heard his father play this card before, and it hadn't turned out too bad. "It's a hobby, okay," he answered, as aspirated as a spy who'd just turned state secrets. "But don't tell anyone because people already think my family's nuts."
Christopher was grinning from ear to ear and looking like Sammy in a new library. "Oh, man, that's cool-does he, like, take pictures of the houses and look for floating orbs and stuff? Is he writing a book, like 13 Tennessee ghosts and Jeffrey? Because that would be awesome!"
Dean nodded, biting his lip to keep from laughing. Yeah, John Winchester, photographer of the dead/children's book author. "It's stupid, really, okay? He just thinks the history behind these supposedly 'haunted' places is cool-guess that's where Sammy got his geek genes. But, don't tell him I told you, Chris. I mean it."
"Of course not-you're right. People around here are so religious…they'd probably think he was some witch or somethin'." Christopher slapped him across the back. "So, can we go check out any old haunted houses?"
Dean froze, and tried not to let his panic show. "Those places are usually condemned-you could get hurt in 'em. And, my dad likes to do his thing alone-so, don't go out there, okay?"
Christopher rolled his eyes. "Chill, alright? I won't. Let's go in before my mom screams her lungs out again."
"Did she make pie?"
"Well, she knew you were coming over, didn't she?"
"Hell yes!"
Dean wasn't sure when he'd fallen to the ground, but there he was, cheek pressed against the earth, the scent of crushed leaves in his nose, his eyes staring at a side-ways view of the woods. His cast-clad arm was out from under him and resting around his head, and also blocking half the view. He felt the beginnings of panic stirring inside his chest in the form of a quickened pulse, but he stayed perfectly still because something had just touched his hand. Something on the other side of his body had grazed his fingers. And it didn't feel like human skin; it felt like fur.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep his breathing still, and went through the usual line up of questions as quickly as possible: where am I? The middle of the woods. He knew his place. He'd been walking through here for days now. He was dizzy, so he wasn't sure if he knew exactly which direction the school was in, but he could find it. If the thing beside him didn't eat him first.
How did I get here? Last he remembered, he'd been waiting for Sam to get out of the library. The school had emptied fast because of the cold front coming in-and now that he thought about it, he was a little chilly in the light button-up he was wearing-so he was left alone on the school's front lawn, feeling like twice-baked shit, and kicking rocks against the old oak. Then he'd seen something…hadn't he? Had he seen the bear? Had he followed it? He wasn't sure. It should have worried him more that he couldn't remember that much.
And of course, that train of thought led to the most important question: where's Sammy? Had he left him at the school? Yeah, he was pretty sure he had-it was something he hadn't done in a long time, ditching him. It was something he hadn't meant to do today, either. But, knowing Sammy hadn't wandered off with him gave him some small comfort-at least that mean he hadn't been eaten by the thing.
The thing being the bear, because Dean was now pretty damn certain that's what it was. His hunch was confirmed when he felt a big paw land on his back, over the soft flesh beneath his ribcage. Claws pressed against him, but not hard enough to dig into his skin. Dean sucked in a breath, eyes widening when the claw ripped his shirt and managed to roll him over in a second's breathe.
"Sh-shit," he muttered, now staring up at the massive maul of the beast. To his shame, his voice was shaking. It took him another moment to realize that wasn't his fault-it was friggin' cold. Goosebumps were raised all over his body, his lips and nose numb from sucking in chilled air. "Okay, Yogi…" he tried to coo. "'S okay… nice bear."
He used his good arm, trying to pull himself out the creature's shadow, but it pressed its paw down again, this time on his stomach. The threat was there, and he froze. One angry swipe of those claws would gut him. One push could crush something vital. And Dean…Dean didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do right now.
He'd been around his fair share of monsters. Some of them, most of them, looked a lot like people, but others looked more like animals. None of them had looked like a goddamn grizzly, and he was starting to think this was out of his area of expertise, because usually the monsters just went straight for the kill. This thing though… It didn't put any weight on him, but it shifted, lowering its hind until it was sitting at a lounge, one massive arm holding it up, the other making sure Dean didn't run.
Dean suddenly remembered an illustration of Winnie the Pooh sitting the same way and a hysterical laugh bubbled its way up. He bit it off quickly, fairly certain that, whether it was supernatural or just oh shit a bigass animal, giggling was not in the survivalist's handbook.
The bear opened its mouth wide, a breathy sound leaving it in quick bursts, like it was trying to mock its prey's laughter. A moment later the animal stopped, cocking its head like a puppy, as if it were waiting to see what Dean did next.
"Knew you were real," Dean whispered. Famous last words, he thought.
The last three afternoons, he'd spent hours looking for this guy, just wandering aimlessly through the woods, hoping to get another glimpse. And, each of those afternoons, he'd come up short, feeling more and more drained afterward. Dean knew that was his own fault. He'd lost his appetite since… Well, he'd lost his appetite, and the shifty weather, hot one minute, cold the next, was playing games with his lungs. Still, though, he'd gone out to search.
He hadn't told Sam, of course, partly because the squirt was in a sour mood lately and partly because he knew better than to present a hunt without evidence. He knew that his word was usually enough but…Dean wasn't stupid. His head was screwed on wrong this week; he knew that, and so did his family. By that third afternoon, he was even starting to suspect that the bear was a hallucination, built on some gossip about an old legend he'd heard in class. Only…Something drew him to the wood. Some need he couldn't quite name.
And, he certainly hadn't let his little brother see him slip his handgun into his jacket before he headed out-Principal Hester would have a shit fit if he knew his dad had sent a teenage boy into his house armed, hunter friend or no hunter friend. Dean wasn't so bold as to take the gun to school with him; he respected Principal Hester that much. But, now he wished he had kept the weapon in his locker, because here he was in the middle of the woods, somehow, and all he had was a knife in his boot that he couldn't reach, even if he was willing to lose a few feet of intestines in the process.
The bear let out a sharp whine like a yawning dog and lowered its face closer to Dean's. Those honey eyes held his. They seemed so…aware. Dean wondered if this was a bearwalker. He'd heard mention of them before, though, as far as he knew, his dad had never faced a person who turned themselves into a bear.
Dean felt a familiar warmth settle over him, so welcome against the cold. He wasn't sure if it was real or not, but he was sure that now he couldn't move on his own. He blinked lazily, feeling dazed. I'm in a trance. It was weird, knowing he wasn't fully in control of himself but not wanting to fight it, even mentally.
Not kill. Protect.
Dean wasn't sure where that thought had come from, but he had the oddest feeling it wasn't his own. "The bear's talking to me," he said, his voice slurred. "A bear's talking to me." And then he chuckled like he'd drunk his first mini-bottle of Wild Turkey.
Not hurt. Heal.
Dean blinked up at the creature, confused. His head fell back against the dirt, his eyes heavy, but he felt a cough building up in his chest, not his first one today. He tried to hold it back and nearly choked on it. The next thing he knew, the bear was leaning over him, resting its head on his chest, as if it were listening to the chorus of rattles and wheezes within.
Not weak. Strong.
"Not weak," Dean echoed, ignoring the gurgle that came out with the words. Claws clicked against the plaster of his cast. "Strong."
Teach you.
Dean realized he could move his arm and reached up, running his good hand against the bear's thick neck. The fur was coarse, chilled, nothing like the warmth he felt under the trance. There was something familiar about that chill, but Dean couldn't get that nudging thought to fully form.
"Teach me what?"
Teach you.
The gentle weight lifted off his body suddenly, the bear watching the woods cautiously. It had seen something, and it snorted in frustration. A second later, it dropped its paw back down onto Dean's stomach, pressing its claws down just enough for three of them to score the skin through his shirt and draw up a red, striped welt. The bear took a lumbering step back and faded away.
Faded. Not walked or crawled, but faded. Dean blinked, letting that part sink in. The warmth he'd felt in the trance had disappeared, leaving him shivering, but still not quite as cold as he'd been around the bear…because spirits sucked the energy out of the air, brought the cold.
Spirits. He'd just had an encounter with a bear spirit.
Dean swallowed, but he couldn't quite gather the strength to get up just yet. He laid still, back against the soil, his hand caressing the stinging mark the bear had left behind.
"Why?"
It didn't make a lick of sense. What did an animal spirit want with him? And why wasn't it trying to rip him apart? And why the hell wasn't he currently running for his weapons so he could hunt it down? That last question, the fact that it came up at all, was a good indicator that something was wrong. He wasn't an idiot-Dean knew there were no gray zones when it came to the supernatural. They never led to good. They had to be taken out. And, yet, he couldn't quite work up the will to want it dead…deader. If anything…It scared Dean to consider it, but he was kind of disappointed the bear was gone.
Dean let his eyes close, his breathing evening out. Christ, he was tired. He could fall asleep right here and forget the rest. It would-
"Dean? Dean!"
He shook awake. No, scratch that, someone shook him awake. He opened his eyes to find Sammy leaning over, his floppy hair hanging in his red-rimmed eyes. Dean mentally added get Sam a haircut to his to-do list.
"Dean! I've been looking for you for almost three hours! It's already getting dark. Are you okay? I told Principal Hester you were out hanging with some friends so he wouldn't get upset, but I didn't know where you were and… Are you okay?"
"I'm…" Dean paused to consider "…okay."
Dean pushed himself up with one arm, Sam holding a hand against his back to help him into a sitting position, but instead of the movement sating his worried little brother, it seemed to work him into a frenzy.
His voice came out pitched. "What the hell happened to you, Dean?"
Dean groaned. "'Nuthin', Sammy, I'm fine. And watch your language." Sam huffed, which sounded about like Sam, so Dean gave a drunken smile. "Help me up?"
But Sam didn't. "What. Happened. To. You."
Like Dean didn't hear him the first time. He shrugged, then realized what he must look like, face and body covered in dirt, shirt shredded in the front and back, and-
Sam, having grown up in a motel room with his brother, had no sense of personal space unless it was his own being violated. He'd already lifted the front of Dean's shirt, sucking in a quick breath at the sight of the scratches beneath. Only, now that Dean looked, they weren't scratch marks anymore. Or, at least, not just scratch marks. The welt had spread out into the shape of a massive paw. A bear paw. The skin was tender when Sam's fingertips grazed it.
"The bear's real. I know you weren't lying about it." There wasn't a question in Sam's voice, but it still put Dean on edge. "I tried to call Dad from the secretary's phone in the office, but he didn't pick up."
That washed the weariness right out of Dean's system. He shot up onto his legs, towering over his brother. "You what?"
"Dean, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you when you said you saw it." Sam looked it, too. His lips were at a pout, eyes wet with anger. "But you shouldn't have tried to start a hunt by yourself. You could have died. I had to call Dad-but his stupid butt wasn't even there!"
"I wasn't hunting, Sammy!" Dean, seeing how stiff Sammy's shoulders had become-a sure sign that tears or fists were on their way-scooped him into a one-armed half-hug, the kind he used to beg for when they were younger. Not hurt. Heal. He hoped his brother didn't feel the shiver run over his skin when the words played back through his head, leaving him with an image of a bear hug. "I wasn't hunting," he repeated. "I was just making sure I wasn't going nuts. You know, more nuts than I already am."
Sam pulled away and rolled his eyes. "You're not. But I guess you figured that out." He waved at the tattered shirt. "Mrs. Queen let me use the internet in the library. It took me forever, and she hung out the whole time, treating me like a little kid or something, but I found some stuff."
Dean raised a brow. "You mean people outside of Belgreen know about the Belgreen Bear?"
"Well, no…" Sam shrugged. "I heard about it before. What I did learn from Mrs. Queen was that apparently it's not all legend, because sometimes black bears wander into this part of Alabama, but the bear from the legend was a grizzly, and it wasn't from around here. She said the story started with this old newspaper article. See, Belgreen used to be the a lot bigger, back in the late eighteen hundreds. Like, it was the main city in the county. And, around the 1920s, this circus was coming through to visit, the Vanhatalo Circus, and they had this really bad wreck on the old train tracks. Some of the animals escaped and were shot by the locals. One of the animals was their famous bear performer Tuju, a grizzly. He was reportedly shot, too, but he wondered off somewhere, probably to die."
"Huh." Dean bit down his smile. God, his brother was scary good at getting info for an eleven-year-old. When he wasn't asked to get it, that was. "Then what did you find on the computer?"
Sam hesitated a moment. "Well, I was looking up stuff on animal spirits, but I could only find this one website." He stared out at the woods, as if he expected the bear to appear out of nowhere. "Can we talk about this at the Hesters' house? You look really cold."
"Sam." Dean stood firm, or he tried to. He teetered on his feet a moment before catching himself. Sam pushed short body under his brother's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist.
"Sam…I don't think this bear's…" Dean didn't know how to finish that sentence. Because he had no clue if the bear was going to hurt them, and that not-knowing factor should have freaked him out more. Shit, maybe I'm under its damn spell or something. "Can animal spirits make you do things?"
Sam stared up at him, his eyes alight with fresh fear, and Dean realized it was a bad idea for him, supernatural-expert /awesome big brother to be asking a question about the supernatural.
Dean chewed his lip. "Because I swear I'm craving honey."
Sam wasn't fooled by the joke. "Dean, I think…I read about this thing the Iroquois Native Americans called 'bear sickness'…"
"Sam, the bear's not making me sick. It's a spirit. It's haunting the place, that's it."
"Yeah, that's what you'd say if you were under the influence of 'bear sickness'. I'm serious, Dean. They say its spirit can make people do things they don't want to do. Can make them sick if they resist. Sick enough to lash out and get angry."
"Well, all the shamans used to think spirits caused every illness around, okay, Sammy?" Dean realized he was snapping and stopped. "It's just a haunting, alright? Me and you, we can look for the bear's remains or we can sit it out-either way, we don't need to call Dad back. He's busy on his own hunt and this isn't urgent."
Sam frowned in obvious disagreement. "Whatever."
"I mean it, Sam. If I think we need Dad, I'll call him, but otherwise this can wait."
Dean didn't even get an answer that time. He sighed. Not kill. Protect. Yeah, that was appropriate mantra for little brothers you're tempted to strangle, alright. "Let's get back to the house."
READ CHAPTER 4