The general rule of thumb is, don’t let it get personal when it’s not. Don’t get attached to the victims or their families and sure as hell don’t try to find reason behind any of it. But all of that flies right out the window whenever kids are involved. Kids are just one item on a list of things that are not to be fucked with in WinchesterLand.
Dean tosses over a look that says This babykilling sonofabitch is toast as he opens the Impala’s trunk, lifting the false bottom. My own expression has pretty much been a perpetual grimace since we first picked up the trail of this thing, almost a week ago. It’d already racked up a body count before we hit town, and snatched another kid last night when we’d chased a lead in the wrong direction. And enough was enough.
I am no sensitive; touching cursed objects or talismans or any of the leavings of otherworldly beings never gives me more than a hunch or a mild case of the heebie-jeebies. That’s the job. ‘Weird’ comes with the territory.
But there’s weird, and then there’s…
“Look alive, Sammy,” Dean snaps, and hands me his 12-gauge. “If you’re right about this, we got less than an hour to gank this ugly bastard.”
“We could always come back in five years and try again,” I say darkly, taking the shotgun, and the look my brother gives me is a black thundercloud of a scowl.
Not like I’m serious, anyway. Not like there’s a snowball’s chance that either of us are letting this thing skip out on us..
It’s over a lot faster than I am expecting it to be. Adrenaline speeds everything up; in hindsight, all I can really remember is the roar of the shotgun and then the banshee screeching in a pitch that made my ears throb. Hell, my ears are still throbbing. But the shot struck where it was supposed to, staggering that nasty undead thing for long enough to finish the ritual and send it on to wherever nasty undead things go. Before that, it took a swipe at me; I’d ducked out of the way, but one of its claws still managed to bite into the curve of my left ear. Nothing worse than a bad paper cut, and a clipping blast from Dean’s sawed-off got the thing away from me in time to get in a lucky shot, but it still stings a little.
We get the kid home safe.
After that, we drive to the edge of town and sit on the hood of the car. Dean hands me a beer. “Could’ve gone worse, right? ‘Least the kid’s okay.”
I pop the cap off my beer bottle and take a long drink, before conceding my brother’s words with a nod. “Who knew you could take down a banshee with a buckshot.”
“Gimme a monster, Sammy, and I’ll show ya the buckshot that’ll take it down.”
There’s a pause. I glance over, cracking a smile. “Shotguns,” I say.
“Shotguns,” Dean grins, and takes a sip of beer.