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FIC: Hunter, Prey
FANDOM: Supernatural
RATING: All Ages
CHARACTERS: John Winchester, Bill Harvelle (not slash)
SUMMARY: He was under no illusions about who was the hunter and who prey. Every instinct told him to run like Hell. Like Hell. Yeah, that was funny.
WARNINGS: None
NOTES: Inspired by the
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poorboyshuffle challenge. I picked the Johnny Cash song Greystone Chapel as my prompt. What I originally had in mind was a story very different from this one, but it simply refused to work. This has much less direct connection to my chosen song, though I still feel an emotional resonance between them.Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5650
HUNTER, PREY
John ducked behind a tree and peered back around the trunk. The baying of the dogs was close. Too close for comfort. He had a good head start; they shouldn't be this near. He could hear them, but he couldn't see a damned thing in the dark woodland. He fired the shotgun toward the sound and was rewarded by a canine yelp.
He pressed his back into the tree trunk and took a moment to catch his breath. His breath was a white fog in the cold air, yet sweat stung his eyes, pouring down his forehead and neck. John reloaded the shotgun, his gloved fingers fumbling with the buckshot rounds. His heart was pounding: mostly exertion, but partly fear and the undercurrent of sheer exhilaration that always accompanied him on a hunt. A stitch of pain pierced his side. John slid the rounds home, cocked the gun ready to fire and peered around the side of the tree again.
Holy shit!
John fired, instinct born of long practice, both barrels between the dog's eyes. Blood sprayed as the dog fell, tumbling back into its pack mates.
John grabbed that precious moment to run. The ground was uneven beneath his feet. Although he had scouted this route in daylight, running in the dark was very different. His feet slipped on the wet ground, stumbled on loose rocks. He could hear the dogs, still much too close and now he was out of ammo. He risked a glance back over his shoulder as he ran. The dogs were sleek shadows in the black, almost at his heels.
And suddenly John was falling into thin air. He cast the useless shotgun away as he fell. He landed heavily on wet, slippery ground, a steep slope. Unable to regain his balance in time, John rolled downward, turning over and over, getting coated in the wet, sticky mud. He tried to breathe and got a nose full of the stuff. He could taste mud and rotted leaves in his mouth.
Finally, his body came to a stop. John heard the baying dogs descending the slope. He had only a moment to make a decision: run or hide.
Pain and exhaustion made the choice for him. Though John knew his goal was close, he just could not move. Not right then. He was soaked to the skin and covered in mud. The mud should mask his scent from the dogs. John lay still, trying to breathe normally as the barking of the dogs came closer.
There was a bowie knife strapped to John's leg. His hand closed over the hilt. It was a comforting feeling. He waited, tensely.
They hunted as a pack. If the lead dog passed John by, with luck, the others would, too. It was a good theory.
Had John not already killed the lead dog, it might even have worked.
It was almost impossible to lie still with the dogs rushing ever closer. John was a hunter, but on this night he was under no illusions about who was the hunter and who prey. Every instinct told him to run like Hell.
(Like Hell. Yeah, that was funny.)
He fought to remain still and quiet. His hand tightened on the knife hilt.
The dogs were shadows and noise in the darkness. He could smell them now. Huge paws struck the ground beside John's head. He flinched, but the paws passed him by. It was working!
Then a dog's front paws hit him square in the solar plexus as it ran right over him. John let out an involuntary grunt at the impact and his body reacted before he could stop himself, doubling over to protect his belly. Shit!
The dog snarled and sank its teeth into his arm. The powerful jaws drove sharp teeth right through the coat John wore into his flesh. Somehow, John swallowed his cry of pain. He wrenched the bowie knife from its sheath, rolling away from the dog, struggling to his knees. John struck out with the knife and it sank into fur and flesh. The dog squealed – there was no other word for that sound – but it didn't let go of his arm. John felt blood flow hot over his hand. He twisted the knife and yanked it free. The dog released him.
John ran.
It was hard to get his bearings after the fall, but if that slope was where John thought it was, he was only a mile from the abandoned grey stone chapel, and safety. Bill was there, waiting. All John had to do was reach him.
John took off in what he hoped was the right direction, through the thickest part of the trees. It was even darker as he ran. Branches and thorns caught at his clothing. He knew he was leaving a trail any fool could follow, but he couldn't worry about that. The dogs were literally snapping at his heels. He had to reach Bill.
He spotted the light of a flame ahead, flickering in the breeze, and made for it. From some unknown reserve, John found a fresh burst of speed. Bill was so close, but so were the dogs. He wasn't going to make it…
"John! This way!"
John followed Bill's shout with relief and found he was right next to the stone wall that surrounded the small chapel's grounds. Ivy brushed his legs as he grabbed onto the stone wall and vaulted over. He turned an ankle as he hit the ground, a quick, sharp pain. He let himself fall, rolled and came up on one knee with the knife ready.
Firelight flared to his left. John yelled, "Not yet!" He didn't go through all this to fail now. No freakin' way.
He shrugged off his jacket as he stood, holding it in his left hand, the knife in his right, ready.
He could hear them, louder than ever. The first one reached the wall and leapt. Its claws scrabbled at the stone before the dark shape jumped down onto the grass. John backed off, keeping his eyes on the first dog as the others bounded over the wall. The lead dog growled low, approaching John slowly. He thought with fierce satisfaction that it seemed wary of him; gutting its leader must have made an impression.
Was the whole pack over the wall? It was too dark for John to be certain. He flapped the coat over the dog's nose and threw it, hoping for a distraction. A second was all he needed.
The dog turned its head to follow the coat.
"Now!" John shouted to Bill.
Flames whooshed up in a circle around John and the dogs. John gathered the last of his strength and leapt over the flames, into the safety of the churchyard.
The dogs whined, trapped by the flames. Fire to purify, on hallowed ground. They couldn't cross the line as long as the fire burned. John could see the dogs clearly now. They were smaller than they'd seemed in the darkness, but still, those teeth would put a wolf to shame and the bodies were built for strength, like pit-bulls. One pawed at the earth near the edge of the flames.
The adrenaline rush was fading. Pain rose to remind him of the long hunt. A throbbing in his sprained ankle. A deep ache in his side. The rawness of his throat and darts of pain in his bitten arm. John fought it all back and staggered to his feet as the dogs began to howl.
Bill's voice reached him over the howls: chanting in Latin. John's voice was a little hoarse as he joined the chant. He picked up the rhythm of the Latin easily. He felt the wind swirl around them, raising the flames. The flaming circle flared once and vanished. The howling of the dogs ceased abruptly. They were gone.
John let out a breath with relief.
Bill's exuberant laughter shattered the silence. "Oh, man. Really makes ya feel alive, eh, John?"
John understood Bill's laugher. Neither of them had been sure about working together, but that laugh, more than anything, confirmed for John that Bill was a kindred spirit. He got off on the adrenaline every bit as much as John himself.
But John couldn't answer the sentiment. He steadied himself against the nearest grave stone. He wasn't seriously hurt. The pain would fade soon.
"Shit. John, how bad are you hurt?"
"I lost my second best shotgun," John groused, avoiding the question.
Bill's flashlight blinded him for a moment. Then the light moved slowly down his body, lingering on the bleeding arm. John had to admit he looked like shit. He was covered in mud from head to foot, his pants were torn and his shirt was bloody from the dog bite. But now wasn't the time to complain about it. A little iodine and a couple of hours in the laundry would put everything right.
John managed a smile. "Hey. We got 'em, didn't we?"
Bill's teeth glinted as he grinned back. "We got 'em. We make a good team, John." He reached for John's uninjured arm, supporting him. "Come on. Let's patch you up."
John swallowed his pride enough to accept the help. "Next time," he suggested, you can be the bait."
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(Can you tell I'm finding the new puppy a bit overwhelming?)
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Have you ever read a comic series by Matt Wagner, The Hero Discovered? It's a retelling of the Pendragon myth in urban America, and it includes a clever use of the wild hunt at one point in the story,
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Have you ever read a comic series by Matt Wagner, The Hero Discovered?
Nah, I don't do comics. I can never get over the idea that comics are for kids. (And the artwork in the adult comics I've seen is awful.)
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