One Way or Another

Okay. So when "borrowing" a car, maybe you shouldn't pick one that belongs to two guys who are armed. Live and learn.

In my defense, they didn't look like the type that would be packing heat. They looked like the type who would be serving beers and hitting on girls at a Friday night frat favorite in the college town a few miles over.  

"... BETTER GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT SEAT BEFORE I—"

The wheels spun on damp, moonlit asphalt, squealing loudly enough to drown out the threats coming from the smaller guy. Ah, well. It didn't take much imagination to guess how that sentence was going to end. I chanced a glance in the rearview mirror, and caught a peek of his pal hastily trying to get him to put away the gun he had pulled from the waistband of his jeans. These backroads weren't exactly thriving at this hour, but the convenience stop had enough people milling about that waving some steel around wasn't going to draw any good kind of attention.

"... SON ... OF A..."

Man, he had a set of lungs on him. I reached over and flipped on the radio, thinking some music would make for a better getaway fanfare than what the plaid pair were shouting. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but the wayback machine to the seventies was not it. What blasted from the speakers was the kind of music dear old dad and the guys would play during summer days at the family garage.

"Back in black, I hit the gas, stole your car, you can kiss my~"

Sing-alongs and road trips. That was the life I lived for nowadays. Feeling confident that Bert had managed to keep Ernie from firing into the night, I stuck my hand out the window to give a farewell wave and a flash of the taillights to show my gratitude.

----

I couldn't have been more than ten miles out, racing along the dark slick of tar, this newest black beauty cutting through the night like she owned every shadow we tore apart, when my new best friend turned traitor and began to slow. It hadn't taken me long to realize that I was making my escape on an empty tank, but I had hoped to reach the next pit stop before it came to this. I revved her up, praying for her to find those last few drops of gasoline that could bring me back to civilization. She sputtered and coughed in reply, as pissy as the owner we had left behind.

Along this route, the streetlights were few and far between. The darkness swallowed us up while we crested to a stop along the roadside, the trees as black and taciturn as the meanest of court judges as they towered overhead from both sides. I pressed my forehead to the coolness of the steering wheel, indulging in a little self-berating before hitting the release for the trunk and dragging myself out of the Impala. The slam of the door as I swung it closed sounded flat in the silence of the evening. At this hour, I couldn't hope to be rescued by a good samaritan out for their Sunday drive. Odds were, if any cars were going to be heading this way, they'd be accompanied by flashing red and blue lights. My mom always says, "God helps those who help themselves." Time to put that theory into action.

This wasn't the first time I had ... taken temporary advantage ... of someone else's wheels. This also wasn't the first time I had explored a trunk in hope of finding a few parting gifts (or, in this case, a bit of fuel). This was, however, the first time I discovered what looked to be an apocalypse-ready arsenal in the back of a joyride.

Guns. Sawed-off shotguns.

Knives with a wicked tooth that a grizzly wouldn't mess with on a good day.

Silver chains, some burlap spotted with stains that looked black in the dim lighting, a glass mason jar filled with... what was that? Oil?

I picked it up, my eyes squinting as I sloshed around the contents. Stepping into a brighter patch of moonlight, I twisted off the crusted tin cap and was immediately assaulted by the tangy scent of copper.

Shit.

The jar slipped from my fingers and shattered as it hit the pavement. Sticky drops of crimson now painted my sneakers, ran along the bottom of my jeans.

Shit, shit, shit!

Trying to draw in air felt like trying to breathe through syrup. My head spun as my heart galloped, and for a second, my nerve-wracked stomach lurched.

"Okay... get a grip, get a grip!" My voice tumbled out of my trembling lips, sounding way too frail for my liking in the surrounding silence. "Look at the bright side! Now you don't have to worry about the cops. Nope, no cops for you, because you just stole a car from a pair of f**king serial killers!"

I should have known. Don't they always say on those TV shows that it's usually the normal-looking ones who wind up being the mass murderers? And what with that shorter guy moving through the aisles of the pit stop like a dog on the prowl, all sharp edges and bright eyes, while his partner in crime towered nearby, dark circles and a weary air worn like a fashion statement ... hell, I probably snatched their ride right before they were headed out for a fun evening of sacrificing virgins. Nothing like a blue slurpee and a piece of gas station pie before a hard night's work.

My fingers clawed at my back pocket, fumbling for my cell phone. When I finally managed to unlock the display with shaking hands, I was greeted by an empty trio of bars that promised not a lick of service in these godforsaken woods. Of course not. What kind of horror show would this be if all I had to do was call for help to finish the tale?

Time to get the hell out of here. Walk, crawl, dash like the Road Runner, dust cloud and all — all that mattered was putting some distance between me and the MurderMobile. I'd keep to the edge of the woods, start backtracking the way I came. If I heard anyone coming, I'd take cover until---

"Well, now."

I'll admit it. I screamed. When you're alone, stranded in some woods at the stroke of midnight, and a husky voice peels out from what were empty shadows seconds before, you're going to have a reaction. Mine was wussy, but at least I didn't pee my pants. Yet.

He stood there, silhouetted against the sickly light of the yellow moon, his face obscured in the darkness. Thicker around the middle, shorter than either of the earlier pair, he definitely wasn't one of the victims of my theft. Judging by the southern rhythm of his accent, he was a local, but he wasn't dressed the part. The air was bitter, still clinging to the end of a long winter, but he seemed nonplussed by the chill that raked his bare arms. I didn't see a car or bike in sight. He might as well have dropped out of a tree, for all I could tell. What, now? Crazy campers to add to the thrill of the evening?

His reaction to my scream was an amused chuckle, and I knew this wasn't going to end well.

"No need to be so jumpy, sweetheart. No need at all. Usually, I wouldn't mind stopping to play for a while, but I'm a bit busy tonight, on account of the new boss." His chin, grizzled with the light fuzz of a beard, angled toward the Impala. "When I spotted this car, I figured it'd be a nice way to get on her good side, though, y'know? Boss is a tough lady, but she makes some sweet promises to those of us who do a good job. So you just tell me where the Winchesters are, and you can go on your way. How 'bout it?"

Ice had replaced my blood; my muscles turned to jelly. So, this is what "frozen with fear" feels like. I trusted this guy about as much as I trusted the psychotic duo who were potentially on my tail, but I'd give him any info he wanted if it would keep me safe and alive.

"I-in..."  I shook my head, swallowed what felt like a stone lodged in my throat. "In the trunk! I don't know one gun from another, but there's probably a Winchester in there. I'll give you whatever they've got!"

Did shotguns have a safety? Would it be on? Or what about one of those knives? Maybe just the sight of a weapon in my hands would give this guy second thoughts about messing with me. I was halfway turned, ready to reach in the trunk, when the wet heat of his breath whispered over the nape of my neck.

"Not the time for games, little girl. Now I'm gonna ask you again, and if you lie to me, the third time I won't ask so nicely." His voice wasn't so amused anymore.

My shoulders brushed against his chest as I spun around to face him, he was pressing so close. Even through the thin weight of my jacket and his t-shirt, I could feel the deathly cold of his body. This time, my scream wouldn't come. The terror choked me like a noose. His face, so near to mine, wasn't human. Not really. Whatever this thing was, he wore a human face like a mardi gras mask. Where the light of human eyes should have been there were soulless pools, alien and black.

Seeing my alarm, a smile stretched his lips from ear to ear, a brighter crescent than the moon overhead.

"Ah. Ah, ah. Now I'm getting it. Just maybe you don't know who I'm talking about, that it?" He again tipped his chin in the direction of the Impala and I pressed my lips shut, trying not to breathe in the sour stench of decay that lay on him like thick cologne. "Maybe a little thief is what you are. 'Thou shall not steal.' Ooh boy, that's a fun one to break. Do you want to take a trip, darling? Looks like you were headed south eventually, so why not get a head start? Now's the time for recruiting."

I've never been in a fight in my life. Flight has always been my defense mechanism of choice. Tonight, it didn't look like life was giving me options. I didn't know what I was facing. I didn't want to know. All I knew for sure was that whatever this thing was planning, I wasn't going to stand around sweetly and let it happen. This wasn't bravery. This wasn't defiance. This was survival, plain and simple.

His smile widened as my muscles coiled tight, preparing to take a swing. He knew. The freak knew I was going to fight back, and he was happy about it.  

I hope this is over with quickly. The thought flashed through my mind, unbidden, and for a second I hated myself for accepting defeat before things had even begun. Hell, who was I kidding? Things had begun when I swiped those keys from Nutjob #1 as he eyeballed the newest release of some Asian porn mag. My life had ended as soon as those keys had touched the ignition.

He stood there, more still than anything alive could manage, waiting for me to make my move.

What kind of ending is this? When your last thoughts aren't of loved ones and cherished memories, but of questions about how much life is going to hurt before it's over?

I was about to find out.

My cry as I pushed forward wasn't one I had in me moments before. He raised his eyebrows, and I felt a second's worth of satisfaction at having caught him off-guard before realizing it was the roar of an engine that had his attention. Headlights were approaching us, and fast. They raced closer with each heartbeat that hammered in my head, the shining eyes of a predator charging in for the kill.

Fear and hope collided in my chest. I tried to take advantage of the distraction, the heel of my sneaker skidding on the slick road as I lunged for the trunk and its stash. Get my hands on one of those serrated blades and just maybe I'd live to see another day.

Instead of a handful of protection, I wound up with a fistful of broken glass. Bug Eyes had made a grab for my jacket, catching enough to send me sprawling onto the mason jar that had fallen from my hands earlier. My yelp of pain was muffled as he hauled me to my feet, a clammy palm pressed to my mouth as a beefy arm clamped so tightly around my midsection that I was sure my ribs were about to shatter. My arms were free at my sides, but he didn't seem to feel my nails as they clawed at his fist, trying to loosen his grip.

A bang as loud as a rifle's shot echoed in the forest around us as the newest guests to the nightmare convention arrived. If I thought I had chosen a ride gone bad, it was nothing compared to the heap of rust that screamed to a halt in front of us. An '87 Volkswagen. Sort of looked like one my grandpa used to own before trading up. There was another loud pop, and a dark plume of acrid smoke began spitting from the exhaust pipe.

"What a piece of crap!" The powdered blue door nearly came off its hinges as the driver all but exploded out of the front seat. "To hell with this! I'm not driving in anything with less than six cylinders from now on! Thought we were done with riding economy after dealing with Dick--"

My captor snorted. He didn't like to be ignored. I wasn't sure which I preferred, monsters or serial killers, so I was staying silent for the moment (not that I was given any choice in the matter).

"Dean... look..." Well, the big one was paying attention. If I didn't have the nagging feeling that I was about to be caught between some serious crossfire, I might have marveled at how smoothly he slid from that cramped junker, gun poised.

The one called Dean raised his head, finally taking in the sight before him.

"Ha! There's my baby! Safe and sound!" He clapped his hands together, rubbing them like a miner who had struck gold, and sporting a grin to match the occasion.

Baby!? Excuse you. Keep your pet names to yourself, you homicidal--  the arm around me tightened, making me momentarily forget what breathing felt like.

"Baby not gonna be safe for long, unless you and your brother decide to play nice," called the voice at my ear.

Dean let out a short bark of a laugh, all boy-next-door smiles, now. "What, that thief? Keep her. I've got the lady I was after." He came closer, but his eyes weren't on me. As if nothing were even remotely out of the ordinary, he walked over to the Impala's hood and gave her a loving pat.

The monster was nervous, but trying not to let it show. He had shuffled back a pace when Dean approached, and his voice was losing its earlier confidence.

"Last warning, boys. You take one step closer... " Those insectile eyes flicked to Dean's brother. "...or keep that piece leveled at me, and I'm going to squeeze so hard this girl's insides bust out of her like a piñata, you follow?"

My heart was pounding so hard that I didn't think any squeezing would be necessary to make it pop out of my chest; it was ready to do that all on its own.

"Alright, alright! Easy, we're not looking for any trouble!" Bigger Brother lowered his gun. His other hand raised, palm open and empty, as submissive and careful as the best of hostage negotiators. "That girl has nothing to do with this. Is this about the blade? Let her go, and we'll hear what you have to say."

The inhuman hold on me became nearly unbearable, his fingers digging mercilessly into my side. When I whimpered, I knew it was what the bastard wanted me to do. He wanted them to see that he was the one in control. I had stopped trying to understand the situation about ten breaths ago, but there was one thing that was too damn clear - this thing had no intention of letting me go. Not unless I was a lifeless pile of pulp.

My fingers, slick with fresh blood, tried to find secure purchase on the small piece of glass I had grabbed when I fell. It was a now or never, do or die move. My ribs howled in protest, but my arm whipped up and back, slamming the shard into the soft purchase of an eye. Something sticky poured over my fingers, and I immediately wanted to retch.

I had expected a scream of pain from the monster, but there was nothing more than a derisive "Hngh!" upon impact. I tilted my chin up, watching as he snapped his head from side to side, acting as if a speck of dust was blurring his vision rather than a jagged hunk of a former mason jar.

"DEAN, WAIT!"

Something roared in the night and bit my ear. We fell, then, my monster and I. I'm not sure what registered first — the hard, frozen sensation of the road on my back, or the icy drip of monster blood running down the side of my face.

"Hey, hey! Are you alright?!" Comforting smells, spicy aftershave and freshly-washed hair, touched my nose as I was pulled into a half-seated position. Not-Dean's face was close to mine, concern wrinkling his wide brow. A part of my foggy mind thought he looked kind of sweet, potential psychotic tendencies and all.

"Hey! Come on, listen! That's it, look at me. You're safe, okay? It's over. You're safe. It looks like it only grazed your ear." His voice had been gentle until he reached that last part. Those final words were shot like an accusation.

Dean was standing nearby, a gun in hand.

"I had a clear shot." His tone was quiet, but it didn't leave room for argument. Even so, his brother didn't back down.

"You could have taken her head off!"

"But I didn't, Sam. I killed a demon." The world was hushed around us, but Dean's voice grew louder with every syllable as he growled at his brother, "A soul-twisted, brain-rotted, hope-he-burns-five-ways-to Sunday-in-Hell, body-robbing demon. That's what we do, remember? We don't negotiate, we hunt!"

Both Sam's eyes and my own had moved to Dean's hand. It was trembling almost violently at his side, his knuckles white from the desperate way he was holding onto his gun. Something in Sam's demeanor changed, the anger ebbing away from the lines of his face to be replaced with caution. "We'll talk about it later," he conceded. "Let's just get her back."

Sam gripped me under my shoulder, easing me to my feet. Perhaps my earlier suspicions about these two were off, but there was still an air of danger, here. The threat of violence. I think we all felt it, and we all knew who was the source.

"That how we work, now? Taxi service for thieves?" Dean forced a sharp, short chuckle, as if trying to suppress the white hot needle of anger that was punctuating his every word. His condemning stare pierced the distance between us, and I felt Sam draw a little closer to my side. His movement didn't go unnoticed by Dean, whose lip twitched angrily in response.

"Sorry." I blurted it out without thinking. "I was only --"

Dean's palm was on Sam's chest before I knew what was happening. He knocked his brother away from me with one forceful shove, his other hand gripping the collar of my jacket. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a pulsing ember of light escape from his sleeve, but it was there and gone. A trick of the moonlight or my fear-addled brain. His face inches from mine, I could now make out the color of his eyes — a stunning shade of green, but old. Far too old for someone with a face that young. The green of an ancient world, a less forgiving time, of pastures at the dawn of man.

"Sorry? Seriously, you're going to make excuses? Wait, let me guess. Dad jipped you on that pony on your sixteenth, so now you steal your own rides? Teenage angst, the later years? Listen. We don't have the time for any boo hoo bull-"

"Escape." I breathed the word quietly between us. Common sense, which told me to stay still and shut up, took a bow to the emotional chaos churning in me. His eyebrows knit as he stared me down, searching for sarcasm or deception in my remark.

If he was looking for an after-school special, a tragic past, he wouldn't find one. Life was good. Family was good. That didn't change the fact that... "Haven't you ever wanted to run away from your life for a while?"

It was like watching ice crack and part in a river, revealing something softer, even if swift and deadly, underneath. For a brief moment I saw what those eyes might have once been.

I was released as abruptly as I had been grabbed. Without so much as another glance, Dean turned his back to me. Silver flashed over his shoulder, and I saw a set of keys hit the pavement.

Neither he nor Sam exchanged a word as he walked past us both. From the way Sam exhaled under his breath, I think he was grateful for that. He came over and picked up the keys Dean had dropped, and placed them in my unmarked hand.

"Do you think you're okay to drive?" I nodded, but I was only half listening. Behind him, I could see Dean pulling a fuel container from the backseat of the Volkswagen. His movements were all business, tight and mechanical, as he went to gas up the Impala. "There's a town three miles down the road. The car's a piece of junk, but you shouldn't have any trouble getting that far, as long as you go easy on the gas. Lose it as soon as you get there. We didn't exactly ask permission when we took it."

Sam smiled at me. It wasn't real — a smile for my sake alone — but he was trying.

When I didn't immediately respond, he leaned down, studying me more closely. "Are you sure you're okay? We've got some first aid in the car. Maybe you should let me patch you up before---"

"No!" It came out more forcefully than I intended, and I imagine I looked as surprised as he did in the aftermath of the outburst. "I... that is, thanks... really, but... I'm good."

This time, when the corners of his lips lifted, it was sincere. And painfully understanding.

They didn't turn out to be serial killers. Still, death seemed to take a backseat in that Impala. I wanted off tonight's ride A-S-A-P.

"Your name's Sam, right?"

"Yeah. Probably better if you forget it, though."

I stood there awkwardly, knowing I owed him something better than that, considering this mess started with me. "Um... you seem, decent. Maybe you should get a less dangerous ... pastime."

One eyebrow raised. "I could say the same to you."

This time, it was my turn to smile. "Fair enough."

While I walked to the car, I kept my line of sight straight and high. I didn't want to see that body — because that's what it was, now. Not a demon or a monster. Just a body. It looked like it could be anybody's next-door neighbor. A store clerk. A dad. Sam was right. The less I knew, the better. I wondered how many people had been told to forget the brothers' names in the past.

The Volkswagen protested that initial turn of the key, but as promised, the starter caught. A digital clock was illuminating the dashboard in pale blue, and I found myself shocked by how little time had passed since this all began. You always hear that your world can change in a second, but you never really grasp the meaning of that until it happens to you. Outside, Sam had already taken up shotgun as Dean shook the last few drops of gasoline from the container's nozzle. Apparently, blood stains were okay, but keep the petrol off the upholstery.

My foot was on the pedal, ready to go, when I leaned out my window. "Hey, Dean!"

He turned, and even with the distance between us, I could see how fatigued his face had become.

"Thanks! If it weren't for you..." I shuddered in my seat. "Thanks for being a hero. You saved my life. That I won't forget."

I had meant for those parting words to be a show of gratitude, to maybe make whatever weight he was carrying pull his shoulders down a little less. But the last thing I saw as I drove away was him staring after me, as if he didn't ... or couldn't ... understand a word of what I had said.