Supernatural Fresh Meat

FIFTY-SIX




Dean snapped awake, horrified that he’d dozed off. He was useless. Uselessness had taken over his whole life. He was unable to help Sam in the aftermath of Hell. Every time he saved the world, it was ready to off itself again. Now here he was, unable to even lift his pinkie, struggling merely to stay awake while people around him died.

He could feel the weight of his .45 in his jacket pocket. He still had it, with the bullets soaked in the spice concoction. If he could just reach it somehow, unload it into Jason, maybe getting the mixture inside his body would do some damage.

His breath frosted in the air, and he knew then that it wouldn’t be long before the place really cooled down. It could be night outside. He had no idea how much time had passed since the avalanche or how long he’d been unconscious. It could be days. The air felt stale and thin, making him breathe shallowly.

Across from him the mountain manager lay awake again, eyes finding Dean’s in the gloom. Dean blinked at him.

Movement in the narrow corridor let them know someone was coming. Don’s eyes went wild, his pupils darting around as Jason entered the room.

Dean closed his eyes. He heard Jason’s clawed feet crunching on the debris of broken glass, insulation, and destroyed ski equipment. The footsteps moved away from Dean and he allowed his eyes to open just a slit.

Jason stood over Don, studying him. The proboscis snaked in the air, and Dean could hear Jason sniffing as he had before. He was going to take one of Don’s organs.

Frustration welled up inside Dean. He willed himself to move, to move anything, just an inch. Just one inch.

Suddenly his foot twitched. He felt the toe of his boot nudge a fallen ceiling tile.

His arms hung limply at his sides, and he concentrated on moving his hands. Just an inch.

His right hand came forward. Dean slid it upward into his pocket. Jason’s back was still to him. His fingers closed around the welcome cold of the .45. With great effort, he pulled it out.

Jason flipped Don over onto his back, and Dean could hear the man hyperventilating in fear. Dean slid the .45 onto his lap, unable to lift it higher than a couple of inches. He used his leg to steady himself, sliding the gun toward his kneecap to get some elevation on the barrel.

Jason tore open Don’s parka, exposing the bare skin. Dark bruises covered Don’s flesh, the avalanche already having taken a toll. The aswang bent over him, exposing his side to Dean, and Dean took his chance. He fired three rounds. The shots rang out deafeningly in the tiny space and Dean thrilled to the scent of cordite.

Jason staggered backward, gripping his side, and let out a piercing scream. He whirled toward Dean, eyes narrowing. Dean could hear Jason’s flesh bubbling already, the bullets working their way through his organs.

Jason advanced on him, and Dean fired again, hitting him in the face, the chest, then again in the stomach. He unloaded the whole clip, knowing that if Jason survived, he’d take the gun, and probably a whole hell of a lot more—like Dean’s heart and brain.

Smoke billowed out from the bullet holes, the smell of sizzling meat stealing over the room. Jason reached him, clawed hand coming down hard on Dean’s gun. It flew out of his grip, landing in the far corner near the hallway entrance. The crack and pop of roasting meat filled Dean’s ears as Jason bent down over him. Dean tried to kick him, but all he could do was weakly punch Jason in the chest and face. He grabbed the feeding tube, trying to tear it off, but his hand wouldn’t close tightly enough around the glistening flesh. He could see bits of cooking fat jumping out of the bullet holes.

Jason grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. Dean felt his veins throb. His head swam, red filling his vision. He tried to breathe, but couldn’t. Then the proboscis attached itself to Dean’s chest. The needle teeth bit down and he felt cold venom entering his body. The aswang held him there, hand tightly around Dean’s throat. The lethargic feeling of paralysis returned, stealing over him. He ached for a breath, but the clenched hand around his trachea made it impossible.

Dean’s world went black.