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Sunday, February 10, 2013

Desert Song Chapter Eleven

        Dean walked slowly for the next five hours.  It was still daylight, but he could no longer see the sun.  Shadows filled areas of the canyon.  He hoped there would be enough moonlight to walk by when it finally grew dark.  
        Stumbling and falling became the norm for the injured hunter. The clawed leg kept up a steady, painful throb, and the coughing halted his progress.  With a stubbornness those who knew him could attest to, the oldest Winchester forced himself to continue on.  He had no water, no food, and no medicines to help him.  All he had was the need to get to Sam and a silver knife he kept in a sheath on his leg.

        Exhaustion and pain were making it more difficult to stay on his feet.  The hunter’s tongue felt swollen from thirst.  His lips had cracked open.  Sunburn blistered his pale skin.

        Darkness began to seep into the canyon making it hard to see.  Dean found a rock tall enough to sit on and not make it difficult to stand up again.  He wiped his forehead and coughed again.

        It was at this moment that a large cat jumped him.  He could barely see it as he went down and rolled, reaching for the blade under his pants leg.

        Listening for movement and the animal’s breathing, Dean held the blade in an attack posture.  He had no intention of fighting defensively.  In his condition, it would only kill him.

        The hunter heard a rustle to his right and forced himself to move quickly out of the way as the cat leaped into the air.  He reached up with the blade in both hands as he got a glimpse of the animal.  The silver blade entered the cat’s stomach and Dean ripped it open as he tore into it.  The large animal screamed in shrill shriek and turned into a man as it hit the ground. 

        Dean Winchester sat still on the ground beside the dead skin walker. He leaned over and pulled his knife out of the stomach as the entrails poured out behind it.   Wiping the blade off on the Native American’s leather leggings, he cried out with the pain the movement had caused.  Killing the creature had cost him dearly, but he was still alive.

        He rose to his feet, breathing hard.  “How many more of you bastards are out there?” the hunter spoke in a hoarse whisper. 

        Standing still, he held the knife in the air and shouted, “I’m still alive, you son of a bitch.  Another one of your monsters is dead!”  The older Winchester slowly turned and continued towards his brother.

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