Little werewolf bitch.
That wasn’t supposed to sound nearly as prejudice as it did in his own head, but it really didn’t matter because that “werewolf bitch” was now, in fact, very dead. The thing was Jude hadn’t known when to stop stabbing the pack leader, so crazed with rage that he’d cut and cut and cut into the spindly male’s freckled throat until there wasn’t much throat left.
The sight was a disgusting one, but it was also one that told of victory, so with hands and shirt bloodied, entire person reeking of iron, and even little tidbits of flesh clinging to him as sick mementos, he loped through the woods with knife in hand. As an added bonus, he didn’t look too shabby for once post-hunt. Minus the scarlet fluid everywhere, he wasn’t bleeding too heavily himself from the slash wounds that bisected his abdomen, or breathing too badly from the two ribs on his right side that were surely busted.
It was nice to come out on top for once, and it would be even nicer to find his truck and get back to town. Time for him to pack up and leave before he became a person of interest to the authorities come morning.
There was one thing Anita hated than going on a hunt after two days of little sleep where the only thing that was keeping her away was caffeine - and that was when someone got to the hunt first. She knew it, the moment she spotted the car on the edge of the woods. No one would be here at that exact spot unless they were looking for something, no doubt what she’d been looking for. She felt in her gut, along with the irritation and frustration that she did all this work for fuckin’ nothing.
Anita pulled her Jeep up behind the car, killing the engine and sliding out of the car as she reached into her jacket, popping open her shoulder holster and letting herself feel the cool steel in her hand. It was comforting, like a security blanket.
Sticking close to the vehicle, ensuring she had cover in case whoever it was wasn’t friendly, she listened to the approach of footsteps as she licked her lips, dark eyes narrowing until she saw a figure. A few more steps, she saw the blood. Hell, she smelled it.
"Little late for a walk, don’t you think?" She suddenly called out.
Truth be told, this only slightly improved Dean’s mood, hearing that she was a hunter, too. Him and Sam, they didn’t really like to join in on the whole hunter scene unless they had no choice. But at least it cleared up some questions he had. He shrugged a shoulder, made a noise of agreement about that damned puppet.
“Pretty frickin’ hilarious, yeah.” He responded, in such a manner that made it clear that, no, he didn’t find it funny at all. It hadn’t really bothered him at all, in fact, until she had pointed it out. Now it caused a frown to appear on his lips again. Still, he remembered manners and that it may be better to forge a good relationship with another hunter. He reached out to take her hand, shaking it for the required polite time frame before withdrawing his arm and stuffing hands back into his pockets.
All he wanted was to get his pie, and get out of here. “Dean.” Now that frown curved into a hint of a smirk.“Winchester.” Her name - didn’t ring any bells right off, but then he didn’t really keep up with this crap. A quick chat with Sam later would reveal to him if his brother knew anything about it.
“So, havin’ some difficulties huh?” Really, he didn’t have to sound so damn smug about it. Payback. In a sense. For the jokes about his canine behavioral tendencies and being called second.
The Executioner shook his hand with a smile before it faltered slightly when he introduced himself. Winchester. She knew that name, didn’t she? She’d heard of it from someone, a hunter no doubt. Anita made a mental note to call Garth back later to get some information on this Winchester guy, see if he did anything else note-worthy besides growl at cats.
"Just a nest I’m tracking down. They keep bolting but I’m planning to have them headless before sunrise." And when Anita wanted something, she usually got it. Or shot enough bad things to make it happen.
The brunette hunter placed one styrofoam cup on top of the other, the burger in her other hand as she headed towards his table without a word or invitation. Might as well continue the conversation, she could do with a seat that wasn’t moving down a freeway. Sitting down with a sigh, she popped off one of the coffee cup lids, ripped open a sugar packet and poured it in before she took a long and well-deserved sip. A few moments later, she placed the cup on the table and smiled up at the hunter.
"Nothing I can’t handle."
He looked at me then, his eyes so wide there was a flash of white to them. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to leave. I’ll gather everyone up, and we’ll leave you and your men alone. I’d put a sign above St. Louis for all the hired thugs, if I could.”
“What would it say?” I asked.
“Here is a bigger motherfucker than you are.
"Hey, come check out this video I found of a fluffy cat rolling around and purring!"
[ It was then that he realized how red his face had gotten, and how warm he started feeling. Picking up the carton of egg nog that he had been drinking, he realized that it was the alcoholic beverage although he specifically asked for the drink without liquor.
—-Dammit, Dean. Not again. ]
Anita rolled her eyes skyward from her seat across the table, her elbow on the table and her hand under her chin as she watched the tall hunter get less and less sober. This was great, just great. She had wanted to work with the infamous Winchester hunters, and she got a drunken giant.
"Y’know, cats tend to do that. It’s not all that fascinating." Unless you’ve downed a carton of egg nog with liquor, like Sam had.
"Should I leave you to sober or we going to try to get to work here, Winchester?"
I loved him, but love isn’t enough. All the fairy tales, the romance novels, the soap operas; they’re all lies. Love does not conquer all.
The one thing that sucks about his eating habits (and he will never admit this to Sam) is the gas that often follows. Fisting his hand over his lips, Dean burps. He grimaces as his hand drops, heartburn acting up. If the ghouls don’t kill him, the burger he just ingested might. Well, at least that is a nicer way to go. The Ithaca 37 clicks audibly in the empty clearing, the ammo weighing down his jacket. He’s got no idea whether he’s going to be finding any ghouls, but he ain’t taking any chances.
( He might have parted ways with Sam, but he has no intention of dying and leaving his brother to that Ruby bitch. )
Closing the trunk, Dean glances about the cemetery. If only he’d skipped the damn burger, he’d have gotten here an hour earlier. Covering his mouth a second time for another foul burp, he moves away from the Impala and curses winter’s shorter days. Twilight’s imminent.
Palestine Cemetery stretches out before him.
Necromancy was a funny thing. It literally made the air cooler around her and she was almost wishing that the sun wasn’t setting as a shudder made her body tremble from the cold. But curse it, her magic always seemed to work better at night. Of course it did, and that little thought about her magic being dark in nature itself made her frown for a moment before she shook her head to regain her focus. She had to get this right otherwise her interrogation of a witness was going to be even more complicated.
So the brunette closed her eyes once again, settling into the spot in front of a new grave in Palestine Cemetery with her fingers touching the dirt. “Okay, let’s do this.” She muttered to herself, her fingers pushing into the dirt as she tried to touch at that cold power inside.
But the shuffling of feet interrupted her and her eyes snapped open, hand reaching for her gun placed next to the bowl of herbs and a knife, hand comfortably gripping onto the Browning as she moved into a crouch towards a tombstone for her to peer out from.