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Dean and the Dryad

12

Zena was in the dark. That was good, she liked the dark. She probably had a broken rib or worse, and the blackness gave her cover. Besides, she didn't need light to catch the beast's sour stench. If she didn't know it by now...

The air shifted. A tangle of shadows, denser than the night, raced toward her from across the deserted warehouse. The old anger rolled in, swift like a summer storm. It pulsed through her, sucking the oxygen from the air. She grimaced; the coppery taste of blood and unspilt tears rose in her throat like a sob. Suddenly a door cracked, illuminating a slice of the creature close enough to touch. Caught off guard, it wavered for an instant and she threw her force in that direction. The thing stumbled, stunned and snarling, and a blind swipe ripped fire through her side. Her rage became a living thing. Balling the years of loneliness, fear and violence into a massive fist of hate, she smashed every fiber of her being into it. There was a sonic clap and the thing burst in an explosion of light.

As the sparks died, the adrenaline wore off and Zena began feeling the effects of the battle. She was losing blood, fast. Her head went woozy, and she stumbled toward a stack of crates to hide.

Big hands grabbed her, crushed her to a barrel of a chest. Through the haze, she struggled to focus on the giant's words.

"...you outta here," he was saying. He marched across the gravel lot toward an ancient, colorless pickup truck; a siren wailed in the not-too-far distance.

"My bike," Zena croaked as the big man gingerly laid her across the school bus-sized front seat. He closed the passenger door, and the reassuring thunk of her motorcycle being plonked on the pickup bed eased her mind. They pulled off in a rock-kicking cloud, the motor oddly quiet in the older model vehicle, and she surfed consciousness to the rocking of the road.

"Uh-uh, no falling asleep on the job," Sam said as he jostled her arm. "Come on, stay with me."

The woman's head rested against the window, cushioned by cashmere locs that hung down her back. She was thick and toned. Even closed, her almond-shaped eyes were lovely, fanned by lashes long enough to rest on her cheekbones. She looked childlike, almost angelic. Too nice to be in this line of work. Then Sam remembered the way she tore into that dryad and was not so sure.

It was a risk taking her to Bobby's, but she was in trouble. Blood was all over the warehouse, hers and the dryad's, and police would be checking every emergency room in the county for someone with heavy lacerations. Besides, the cabin was closer.

He drove with his left hand fast as he could without sacrificing a tire to the back roads. The right kept pressure on four deep cuts the monster had left her as souvenirs. He didn't like the way they looked; when the blood was mopped away, blue-white connective tissue showed. She moaned and he instinctively stepped on the gas pedal. Her plump breasts shimmied along the neckline of her top. Quit being creepy. You're not your brother.

The truck skidded to a stop in front of the cabin. Sam raced to the passenger side and swung her into his arms.

"Dean! I got a live one here, but she's hurt!" Sam kick-knocked on the door, then fumbled his key into the lock, balancing her muscular body on one shoulder.

Dean was eating a fried bologna sandwich when Sam busted in carrying an armful of chocolate curves and practically dumped her on his plate.

"What the hell?"

"Get the suture kit," Sam commanded, clearing the table of coffee cups and newspaper. Dean clicked into medic mode. Ever so often, Sam brought home a stray. His little brother was a sucker for innocent bystanders, especially if they got hurt. Sometimes they had information on a case. He rolled up his sleeves, scanning the bloody mess to see if she was hemorrhaging.

Just then, the girl's head rolled to the side. For a moment, she and Dean locked eyes. Later he would say it was like falling in space. He couldn't move a muscle but swore he was being pulled forward, at the mercy of those big velvet eyes. She grasped his hand; otherwise he might have blown away like a leaf. Then a spasm of pain clenched her jaw.

"You're gonna be OK, darlin'. I swear it." Dean turned to Sam, suddenly grounded, and showed him their clasped hands. "I think you better get the supplies. I'll keep up the pressure on her wounds."

Sam hurried to the linen closet and Dean arranged her on the breakfast table as comfortably as he could. He was grateful she'd closed her eyes. He wanted—no, he had to save her, though for the life of him he didn't know why. So he put the immediate, irrational connection he felt in the box in the back of his mind and concentrated on performing a quick head-to-toe exam.

Temperature a little high. Pulse and respiration steady. He cupped her head gently, sinking his fingers in her soft hair, turning left and right to check her range of motion. He stroked her neck and was rewarded with an involuntary shiver. Mmhh. No nerve damage. Her arms and legs were firm, lean muscle, so shapely she could have been sculpted.

He couldn't find any broken bones or significant injuries other than her cracked ribs. The ripped and bloody undershirt was barely holding on, stretched as it was over her wide-set breasts, and he saved that part of the exam for last. But before he could look further, Sam's footfalls approached. The younger brother reentered the kitchen with arms full of bandages and antiseptics.

"So, what's the deal on this one?" Dean asked.

"Not sure. I tracked the dryad to an old warehouse, but she'd beat me to it. By the time I got there, she was mopping the floor with it."

While he talked, Sam used a pair of old shears to cut open her ruined shirt from hem to neckline. Inch after inch of smooth flesh came into view, contrasting that much worse with the gashes in her side. Plump, creamy cleavage spilled from her bra and desire kicked Dean in the gut. What's wrong with me? I've seen hot chicks before. He felt like a perv, ogling her on the operating table, torn between wanting to see more and wanting to shield her from Sam's eyes.

Sam spoke, his voice a little froggy. "I couldn't leave her. She'd finished the job, but cops were coming and there was no way she was walking out of there by herself." He uncapped a bottle of rubbing alcohol and paused, preparing to pour it over her wounds. "She's tough. But this is going to hurt like hell."

Zena screamed into consciousness and jerked straight up, knocking the alcohol across the kitchen. Sam caught an elbow to the face with a pop that signaled the dislocation of cartilage. Alarmed, Dean matched her blows with defensive blocks for a full minute before he could grab her wrists and force her bodily back to the table.

"It's OK," Dean barked inches from her face, "you're safe."

She bared her teeth, bucking and twisting despite the pain. He could imagine her fear, waking up half-naked in a room of strangers. Dean respected the way she fought her ass off, but he needed her calm so she wouldn't do any more damage to herself or them. He straddled her and bore down with his full weight.

"You're hurt, but you're safe. We're not cops." He softened his voice. "You're safe."

His words seemed to penetrate her panicked haze. She ceased struggling, so he eased off her, but she tensed again when Sam reappeared with a bloody face, squinting and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Who are you? Where am I?"

"I'm Dean, and this is my brother Sam. You're in our hunting cabin. What's your name, darlin'?"

"Z-Zena," she gritted through stiff lips. "I'm Zena."

"Well, Zena, you're one hell of a fighter," Dean said. "You killed that dryad. But you're sliced up real bad. You need stitches ASAP, and we have to sanitize the wound." He squeezed her hand reassuringly, surprised to see he was still holding it, and returned to swabbing her side.

"Sam has stitched me up more times than I care to remember. You couldn't ask for anyone better. And I'll be right here the whole time."

"You got medical-grade sutures and sterile needles in a log cabin?"

"Bet your sweet ass we do. Only thing we don't have is anesthesia. You want some whiskey? It'll numb the pain."

"Hell no."

"Fair enough," Dean said. Sam had stuffed tissue into his nostrils, and was pulling a needle from the boiling pot with tongs. He approached her side with the instrument, looking only slightly ridiculous as he concentrated on threading it.

"Ready?"

"I can do it myself," Zena snapped, sitting up. A stabbing pain made her regret it immediately.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sam said firmly. "I promise, I'll be quick."

Zena uncoiled until she lay flat, favoring her throbbing side. Her lips trembled with misgivings, but she needed help and she knew it. The dark-haired one, Dean, sterilized her cuts one more time before the giant began stitching. Zena flinched and gripped Dean's hand hard enough to crack the knuckles, but she didn't cry out. Acknowledging pain only amplified it.

It was slow going, close to an hour, and she kept her eyes focused on the ceiling. She's a trooper, Dean thought. He didn't know many people, women or men, who could take battlefield surgery with barely a whimper.

While Sam stitched, Zena talked. It gave her something to focus on besides the pain.

"I was staying in a small town about an hour outside of Denver last year when things got strange. Housewives were turning up pregnant left and right. Not your typical suburban breeding, either. These broads were having triplets and quadruplets and even quints. At first, I joked that it had to be the water. Then I thought maybe there really was something in the water. It spread to all of the women."

"That's strange, but not exactly red-flag, our kinda strange," Dean said.

"What exactly is your kinda strange?" Zena challenged. "How do you even know what a driad is?" Her pronunciation was arcane but authentic. Sam cocked his head and looked at her with fresh interest.

"Simple," Sam said. "We're the Winchesters."

"The who?"

Sam shot Dean a quizzical look, to which Dean shook head. He didn't believe it.

"Nobody who's a hunter hasn't heard of us," Sam exclaimed. "I'm Sam. Almost brought the Apocalypse twice?"

"And I've been to hell three times," Dean added. "Not to brag, but in the world of supernatural hunting, we're kind of a big deal."

"Really? Cause bringing on the end of the world—twice—sounds like you're doing it wrong," Zena said, laughing with a shallow pant to minimize the pain. "Hunting. Is that what you call it? Feels more like being an exterminator to me. Or a garbage man."

"At least they get 401Ks," Dean joked. "Long hours, mortal danger, no pay. You've gotta be real geniuses to do what we do."

"Unless you're in it for the fame," Zena teased.

"The way Sam says you handled that dryad, you could be," Dean said. "I thought we knew all the skilled hunters out West, but I haven't heard of you. Believe me, I'd have remembered."

Zena shrugged. "Until today, I thought I was the only person in the world who does what I do. I keep a low profile. Didn't even know other hunters existed, let alone had reputations."

"I'm glad to be the one to change that, then."

Sam was impatient with Dean's flirting. "So you thought a dryad was behind all the multiple births?"

"There's more. Everyone past childbearing age started dropping like flies."

"Sounds like a renegade fertility spirit, all right," Sam said.

"I tracked it across the Rockies on my bike." Zena's eyelids drooped; all the talking seemed to have drained her. "How'd you find it? It hadn't kicked into gear yet here."

"We just happened to hit town at the right time," Dean said. "We picked up on a couple of omens. Sam was out investigating when he found you. Good thing, too."

"I was in trouble." She smiled, but it was weary. She blinked slowly, closing her eyes for long seconds, but her voice stayed steady. "It was old, powerful. I knew I could finish it off, but I thought for sure I was going out with it. 'Til Sammy here showed up."

Zena beamed a little smile at Sam and he flushed with pleasure. A tiny thread of molten iron shot through Dean's body. Stop being an idiot, he chastised himself. He was feeling her, true, but this extra, overwhelming element of possessiveness was foreign to him. He didn't like it, any more than her story. Something about it didn't sit right, but damn if he could put a finger on it. Still, over the years he'd learned to listen to his gut; hunters who didn't ended up dead.

"Hey, you did the hard work," Sam mumbled. "I just handled the cleanup. All done." He taped two large gauze pads to her side. She tried to get up, but he gently pressed her back. "Just rest for a minute. You've been through a lot and your body needs to recover. Let me fix you something to eat."

Sam checked the fridge and groaned.

"Dean, I thought you said you went grocery shopping!"

"I did."

"All I see is beer and fried chicken!"

"Like I said."

Sam sighed. "I'm going to the store. She needs something to bring up her blood sugar. Dean, sit tight and keep her talking. I'll be back soon as I can." He grabbed his keys and bounded out to the car.

"Get pie!" Dean called. He turned to Zena, still prone on the table. She seemed more alert—and uncomfortable. She sat up, shaking her head to clear it, and tugged the split halves of her ruined top together. Alone with Dean, she looked a little more naked.

"Let me find you a shirt," Dean offered. He missed surgery Zena, loopy and talkative. His hand felt cold without hers in it. He rummaged through Bobby's dresser, realizing that his uncle really needed some new underwear. The shirts were clean, but ancient and permanently pit-stained. Sam's would hang on her like a tent. But his would fit her just right.

Back in the kitchen, Zena perched on the table. Sam was right, she needed to rest. But she also had to get out of there. Something weird was going on with Dean; she was conscious of him in a way she couldn't explain. She rubbed her palm, remembering how he'd fought to subdue her, then held her hand for the entire surgery. Even when he left the room, his aura was a physical presence around her. She couldn't figure it out, and when in doubt, her habit was to run.

Zena's expression went blank as soon as she noticed him in the doorway. Is it that hard for her to trust someone? Dean handed her his best white v-neck and turned his back in an exaggerated show of respect.

"You decent yet?" he joked after a few seconds.

"Shut up," she replied. "Ok, you can turn around now. And thanks."

Dean had to catch himself; it looked like she'd been poured into the shirt. He'd always appreciated curves on a woman, but she turned plain underwear into lingerie. He licked his lips.

"Don't mention it."

He could see she was skittish, so in slow, deliberate moves, he pulled up a chair and slouched back, allowing her a long look at him. His dark hair was unruly and three-day-old stubble shaded his jaw, but curly eyelashes and round lips softened his edges. His athletic build was evident in a Henley and old jeans, belying years of hard living.

As they gazed at each other, the rushing feeling came back, but this time, Dean was ready for it. He held her stare, pulling her into his world, feeling out the binds of this connection. Curious, he gave a mental tug and Zena's eyes went wide.

Trust me, he surprised himself by thinking at her.

Why should I?

Her response was no less clear for being unspoken. Zena braced her weight on the table, waving off Dean's proffered hand, and took a moment to steady herself before alighting. She picked her way to the sink and poured herself a cup of water.

Dean forced himself to remain quiet as she drank. He wanted to ask about her past, where she'd come from, who her parents were, but basically everyone got into hunting the same way: some supernatural piece of shit came in and killed everything you held dear. Hunter etiquette demanded waiting until a person was ready to share their story. Still, he couldn't resist prying a little.

"How long have you been hunting?"

"A long time," she answered.

"Did you grow up out West? Me and Sam are from Kansas."

"I moved around a lot. I'm not really from anywhere."

Zena looked through the window, off in the distance, and Dean was quiet for a beat. He stood and joined her at the window. Her side profile was just as rewarding as the head-on view. Her arched brows and slightly upturned nose offset her sexiness with a bit of an imperial air. He bet she looked magnificent on her bike.

"I think you broke Sammy's nose." Dean couldn't help chuckling at the thought—Sam got beat up by a girl! "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"Here and there. Kickboxing, wrestling. I drop in at gyms from time to time to stay sharp." She paused, letting her eyes slide up his body. "You know, if I wasn't hurt I could've kicked your ass, too."

The mild curse turned his crank. Down, boy. "Maybe I took it easy because you were scared."

"Yeah, right." She smirked, her mouth looking like some exotic fruit Dean wanted to taste.

"You've got fast hands, I'll give you that. Must be the Tae Bo classes. You're welcome to show me how good you really are, once you heal up. Let's spar."

"Oh, I'm not planning to stick around that long. Besides, isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Touchè." He smiled, but there was tension in it. For all her flirting, she hadn't given a straight answer yet. It was starting to irk him. "Let's try this again. Where did you say you're from?"

Zena narrowed her eyes, done with the foreplay. "I didn't. Look, you sure you're not a cop? Because one minute you're grilling me like a murder suspect and the next you're eyeballing me like a hot pastrami sandwich."

Dean flinched; it felt like someone'd held his hand for twenty minutes then suddenly flung it down. Her anxiety level was skyrocketing and he didn't know why. He tried to re-establish their psychic bond, but she'd put up a wall.

"I don't owe you any explanation," she was saying. "Tell Sam I said thanks for everything. I've gotta go."

Zena stalked to the door and yanked it open, but her bike was nowhere to be seen. Sam still had it on the back of his truck. She stomped back inside and slammed the door.

"Just as soon as your brother gets back with my bike."

Her attitude pissed Dean off. "You know, you've got a real problem. You're hiding something—hell, everything! Down to your most basic information. You expect me to believe that you learned to waste dryads at the friggin Y? Me and Sam just saved your life, and you're holding out."

He stepped closer and took her by the arm. His voice hushed. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Zena. Don't go—you could bleed out before the night's end if you're not careful. Whatever you're running from, we can help."

His eyes bored into hers, and he could see her walls cracking in spite of herself. With a small grunt, she wrenched her arm away. Dean made an exasperated sound.

"Come on! We already know you killed a monster. What's so much worse that you'd rather bolt with a hole in your side than 'fess up?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because you can trust me. I can protect you!"

"You can't even protect yourself! Look at you! You're just another zombie that wants to fuck!"

They were nose-to-nose in the small kitchen, and it felt like a hundred degrees. Dean's head was pounding. He needed distance, but he stepped closer. Then he looked, really looked at her. Zena's eyes were so dilated she looked stoned, and her breasts rose and fell with rapid breaths. She was just as affected as he was, he realized. He traced a finger where the pulse in her neck was beating like a butterfly.

12
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