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."
