Death by Life / Book Eight / The Life Series / Supernatural

Dog Dean Afternoon

Sam was sitting at a table in the library of the bunker.

Dean and I walked in.

"Wow," I told them.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Kevin," Dean answered. "Just poured some buffalo milk down his gob twice."

"Buffalo milk?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah, the hangover cure-all," Dean answered. "It's got everything in it. Except buffalo milk."

"How is that kid still recovering from Branson?" Sam asked.

"What can I say?" I asked. "He's an amateur. The slippery nipple shots at the Dolly Parton Dixie Stampede nearly killed the guy."

 "All right," Sam told us. "Well, uh, I got something that's gonna get us back on the road."

Dean sat down next to Sam. "A case?"

"Yeah," Sam answered.

"You sure you're ready for that?" Dean asked.

"Why would I not be ready for that?" Sam asked.

"Aren't you kind of running on empty?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, but the last three nights straight, I had eight hours of shuteye," Sam told him. "For a hunter, that's, like, 20. Trust me, Dean. I feel good."

"Well, that's great and all, James Brown, but you're still recovering from the trials," Dean told him. "I think you ought to pace yourself, you know? And the sooner you heal..."

"Yeah?" Sam asked.

I sighed, shaking my head. "I just want you back to your old self."

"I am, Ness," Sam told me. "Look, Kevin's back on the Heaven spell. Crowley's locked up. We should be out there doing what we do best."

I nodded barely. "Yeah."

"You want to listen, at least?" Sam asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "Okay, great." I smirked. "Taxidermist named Max Alexander mysteriously crushed to death. Nearly every joint in his body dislocated, every bone broken. Poor guy is a human pretzel. You tell me what's got that kind of strength."

"A demonic luchador?" Dean suggested sarcastically.

"Shop's a couple hours away in Enid, Oklahoma," Sam told us. "We should at least check it out." He looked at Dean. "Unless there's some reason you think we shouldn't."

Dean didn't answer, looking at me.

I shrugged slightly.

  ~~~~~~~~   

Dean and I walked toward the taxidermist's shop, posing as FBI.

A sign read:

Mounted Treasures Taxidermy. Shipping & Receiving. Est. 1967.

A message had been spray painted in red on the wall and door:

DIE SCUM.

On the painted 'M', there was a symbol of a dog's paw print in an inverted triangle.

"Subtle," Dean told me sarcastically.

"Check that out," I told him, pointing to the symbol. "Huh." I took out my phone, taking a picture of the symbol, turning to face Dean. "Oh, and, uh... by the way you're acting, I can tell that you're as tired of the secrets and the lies as I am." Dean nodded. "So you want to tell him."