More Than a Feeling

Chapter 7

Judging by the contraction of Dean's brows and the grim set of his mouth, Ruthie knew he'd understood her signal. And he was worried. Not reassuring.

Especially when she was being held in an iron grip by this...thing. She wasn't even completely sure this was real, that she wasn't having a bizarre nightmare brought on by the stranger she'd let into her house, with all his crazy talk about hunting bad guys—bad guys who could leave foot-long gouges across his chest.

Then the man, creature, whatever it was, squeezed its hairy hand tighter over her mouth, its nails pinching deeper into the skin of her cheek.

No. This was real.

She sucked in an unsteady breath through her nose. Heat rebounded off the creature's hand when she exhaled. It stank like wet dog. She couldn't get enough air; spots formed in front of her eyes, and her gums buzzed. A detached part of her recognized the symptoms of hyperventilation. She ordered herself to calm down.

She pulled her eyes away from Dean's long enough to locate the shotgun: right where she'd left it, leaning against the wall beside the black stove. About eight feet ahead and to her left. It might as well be on the moon. This thing's arms were like a steel cage.

"Sam's meeting me here," Dean was saying. "He's probably outside right now."

Hot breaths came a little faster against her cheek. "You're lying," it said, but doubt tinged its growling voice.

"You think?" Dean said. "You're about to have your paws pretty full. You better let her go."

"So you can shoot me?" it barked. "I don't think so." Its arm tightened around her, squeezing until she could barely breathe, until she was sure her ribs would break. "Drop your gun!"

Dean glared at the thing, gun still leveled at its face. The creature's head moved behind her, sliding slowly down and to the right. Its breath came hot and wet against her neck, and her body went stiff. Two hard, sharp points pressed into the soft skin on the side of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Okay. Okay!" Dean's voice sounded gruff and urgent. She squinted her eyes open a slit. He had turned the .45 to the side and was slowly lowering it. He set it on the bed and straightened again, hands up on each side. "There. Now let her go."

The fangs pulled away; the hot breath receded. Then, with an almost casual flick of its arm, the creature flung her backwards through the kitchen. She smashed into the lower cabinets and landed in a stunned heap on the floor. The force of the impact drove the breath out of her. For several seconds she could only clutch at her chest, making croaking noises, trying to breathe. Dean and the creature were speaking to each other in tense tones, but she couldn't make out the words over the ringing in her ears—not that it mattered. All that mattered was air.

Finally, her lungs seemed to unclench, and she gasped. She coughed, choked, and gasped again, sucking in air as though she'd been held underwater. With the oxygen came clearer thoughts. She needed a plan. Whatever that thing was, it was stronger than any man. It had already hurt Dean once, and now it was back to finish the job. And it wasn't alone. She'd seen the other one, a stocky man—if it was a man—with a beard, in a dark coat, wrenching open the door of the tractor cab, reaching for Vern, the instant before this one grabbed her.

And Dean had put down the gun.

From her spot on the kitchen floor, she eyed the shotgun. She'd have to get eight feet past the monster, pick up the gun, turn and shoot before it caught her.

Not possible.

She couldn't see Dean from down here on the floor. The thing, standing with its back to her, was laughing now, a raspy, animal noise that made her skin crawl.