Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,88
Sam’s thoughts wandered to the Donner Party. He imagined the Forlorn Hope slogging through the snow like this with makeshift snowshoes. Sam’s stomach rumbled. He and Bobby had split the last of the jerky more than an hour ago. He couldn’t imagine being out here and not having eaten for a week. Mired in during a blizzard, the Forlorn Hope had been reduced to eating the oxhide laces of their snowshoes. The desperation of eating the very mode of conveyance that could deliver you to safety was a bleak act.
His thoughts turned to Dean. His brother had always been there for him, defending him no matter what, always looking out for him. There was no way he was going to let Dean down. No way.
He glanced back at Bobby, who was still grumbling.
Bobby tore off his warm cap and threw it down in the snow, then kept walking.
“Bobby.”
Bobby tore off his gloves and started to unzip his jacket.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s too damn hot. I’m burning up in all these layers.”
Sam rushed back to him. “Bobby. It’s not hot. It’s freezing.”
“Maybe you’re freezing. I’m burning up.” He shucked off his jacket, casting it aside. “It ain’t enough that we can’t get the floors clean. Now we have to deal with this.”
“Floors?” Bobby shoved past him, leaving his warm clothes behind. Sam picked them up. “Bobby, put these back on.”
He waved at Sam dismissively. “Hell if I will.”
The anger, the illusion of warmth… Sam stopped. This was advanced hypothermia. They had to stop now and build a fire, or Bobby would be dead within a few hours.
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