Chapter One
“You sure this will work?” Dean’s voice brought the younger Winchesters head up, the book in his hands momentarily forgotten.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sam replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone. “Of course, it would work a lot faster if you stopped asking me every five minutes if it will work.” Sam lowered his gaze back to the book, twisting the chalk in his fingers as he roved his eyes over the symbols on the page. “I know what I’m doing, Dean.”
Dean scowled at him before he tightened his grip on his raised shotgun.
“Yeah, OK, Poindexter, but do you think you could hurry it up? We’re kinda on the clock here, dude.”
Sam let out a clipped breath, resisting the urge to smack his brother. “I’m going as fast as I can. If you think you can do better, then please, be my guest.” The words were spoken tightly, between clenched teeth, but Sam was passed sugar-coating and feigned niceties. Dean was pissing him off.
The last few weeks had been hard on them both, and they were feeling the pinch. Too small living conditions, too small a town, and far too much time spent together… they were grating on each others nerves.
Dean had taken a bad fall on a salt and burn, and had been laid up in the motel with a sprained ankle. Cabin fever, Sam thought, was a word invented with his older brother in mind. The twenty-eight year old man had suddenly reverted back to a five-year old kid, whining about how bored he was, demanding attention constantly, and Sam had very quickly reached the end of his tether. He was grateful as hell when Dean was able to move around on the limb without assistance, and he was even more relieved when Dean had declared himself fit to hunt. Another day sat in that motel room while Dean thought up ways to irritate his little brother in the name of entertainment and Sam would have seriously considered fratricide.
Not that Sam wasn’t annoying Dean just as much – he was pretty sure he was – but Dean seemed to be going out of his way to rile Sam up. In fact, he had taken irritation to a whole new level that Sam wasn’t even sure he wanted to compete with. Dean’s frustrations at not being able to move around properly had come to the forefront pretty quickly, and whilst Sam understood that he was the only person his brother could off-load those frustrations onto, he was also only human. The constant sniping had pushed his own patience over the proverbial edge, resulting in the bickering that had been going on constantly for the last six days.
Continuing to draw the symbols on the floor, Sam divided his attention between his task and his own thoughts. They didn’t fight often, and all honesty Sam wasn’t sure he even considered this little spat a fight, but they definitely needed some alone time. Not that they had a chance in hell of getting it, but Sam hoped that after this hunt Dean would find a bar, some brain-dead girl and come back a little more… well, Dean.
“I’m gonna check the rest of the house out,” Dean said finally, “hurry up with the damn symbols, Picasso. You ain’t painting the Sistine Chapel.”
Sam wondered if fratricide really was a punishable sin. “You want to try and draw this?” he growled, shooting his brother a glare.
The sigil itself was a difficult one. Three different languages had to be incorporated around the edges of the circle, and the centre was series of interlocking lines that had to be perfectly copied for it to work. Sam had practiced drawing the thing for a couple of hours before they had left the motel, but still, it was tricky, and he was constantly checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Their lives depended on him getting this right, and Sam wasn’t willing to risk such a high price for the sake of rushing.
Dean snorted, grinning in a way that set Sam’s teeth on edge. “You’re the geek, Sammy, I’m the quirky comic relief. I just stand here, shoot stuff, and look pretty – very pretty,” he added with a smirk.
Sam’s jaw clenched, but he let out a sigh that was more weary than anything else as he returned his gaze back to the book. “Just go, Dean.”
Shooting him an irritating smile, Dean turned towards the door. “Holler if you need me.”
Sam muttered a half-assed reply, his attention focused on his task. He’d seen – and heard – some pretty weird crap in his life, but this hunt was the icing on the cake of weirdness because really it didn’t come any stranger than this. He wasn’t sure how the hell Dean had found this gig, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. Sam shook his head, unable to keep the incredulous snort from escaping his tightly pressed lips. Just when he thought he had seen it all, something like this cropped up.
Demons, ghosts, shifters, werewolves, vampires, pagan gods… and now a fire breathing chicken. If it wasn’t so damn serious, he would have laughed, but several people had been seriously burnt by this thing and Sam couldn’t find it in himself to find the humour.
They’d spent a few days on the research, interviewing the victims under the usual guise of law enforcement. Sam had honestly thought they were all stark-raving mad, but every single victim had said they’d seen a giant bird that had breathed fire. Sam wasn’t sure who was more surprise – him or Dean – although his brother’s nonchalant shrug was followed by something about ‘KFC and whole new meanings’. Only Dean could find the funny side of a fire breathing chicken.
The research had revealed that the chicken was in fact a Basan. It was supposed to be a myth and Sam was seriously hoping that was the case.
He heard creaking floorboards behind him and rolled his eyes.
“You bored of scoping the place out already?” Sam said, tracing another part of the sigil. “You can’t have gotten farther than the kitchen.”
Getting no response, Sam twisted his head to look over his shoulder – and wished he hadn’t. Where he was expecting Dean to be stood was the biggest frigging bird he’d ever seen in his life. It was more like an ostrich in size, and more eagle than chicken in appearance, but it didn’t make the thing any less formidable.
Standing on two thick legs, huge talons jutting out from its feet, the Basan’s feathers were a combination of red, green, gold and blue all mixed together. It looked electrically vibrant and oddly bright in the dullness of the room. It made a low throaty purring kind of sound as it tilted its ruffled head to one side, sanguine beady eyes glancing at the sigil before flicking angrily towards Sam. He wasn’t sure if the creature was clever enough to understand what the sigil was for, but Sam had an inkling that it knew. Not that it mattered; this thing was going down no matter what.
Sam didn’t hesitate. Pulling the Taurus from the floor at his feet, he fired a round of shots at the thing. It staggered back two steps, red eyes snapping to the smouldering wounds between its feathers, but that was the only notice it gave the wounds.
As it opened its hooked beak, Sam realised what was coming and flung himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the flames that erupted from the creature’s mouth. It wasn’t a huge ball of flames like he had expected from the victims statements, but he certainly felt the heat across his back as he darted out of the way.
Sam had managed to stay on his feet, but he wasn’t sure how long he could avoid the flames for considering this thing wanted him chargrilled and didn’t respond to bullets. It didn’t stop him slamming another magazine into the gun, though. It might not kill the thing, but Sam felt better holding it.
The Basan uncurled its wings, and to Sam’s astonishment – and dismay – it had large curved claws embedded in the under feathers. Like the breath laced with red hot flames wasn’t enough, he now had to deal with this.
“Uh… Dean!” He shouted, despite knowing that his brother would have heard the shots.
Stepping backwards, Sam was amazed at how quickly the bird moved. He’d expected it to be slower because of its size, but size apparently didn’t necessarily go hand and hand with speed. Wings extended, it swiped at him, hissing viciously.
Pain exploded down his side as the claws caught Sam’s left shoulder, his gun flying from numb fingers. His vision wobbled momentarily, but he ignored it, darting blindly backwards away from the killer bird. The smell of smouldering wood filled the air, black smoke billowing into the air from the chair that was now on fire, orange flames licking the piece of furniture, growing bigger with each second that passed. Sam clutched his shoulder, ignoring the blood that was pooling behind his palm, trickling through his fingers as he shifted along the wall, trying to get away from the bird whilst avoiding the growing fire. Flame-throwing chicken… Sam laughed under his breath. His life was frigging weird.
“Sam!” Dean’s voice cracked like a whip from behind the Basan. Sam had never been so goddamn happy to hear his brother’s voice. A volley of shots echoed around the room.
The bird reared its head, and shrieked. Sam instinctively covered his ears, trying to block out the stomach-churning sound as it continued to cry. More shots rang out and then there was silence. Sam snapped his gaze up, seeking the Basan and his brother out.
“Dean, look out!”
The Basan turned, its heavy talon’s clicking on the floorboards as it moved, and in one swift motion it roared in Dean’s direction, flames exploding from its beaked mouth.
Dean’s ankle still wasn’t healed fully and Sam could do nothing but watch in horror as he tried to dodge the orange flare rushing towards him. He wasn’t going to move in time. Sam could tell, and evidently so could his brother. Instead, Dean dropped directly down onto his stomach, but he wasn’t quick enough. The flames barely brushed his jacket, but in less than the blink of an eye the material caught fire.
Dean gave a startled yelp at the flames running up his arm, and quickly dropped onto the floor, rolling across it as he attempted to put himself out. Sam was already on his feet, searching for his gun. Bullets might not have affected the Basan but they would certainly divert its attention from Dean.
The flames were getting thicker now, roiling, black smoke filling the room, making it difficult to see anything. Sam coughed, his lungs burning as he inhaled the noxious air. His eyes were getting heavier and he was sluggish on his feet.
“Dean!” He coughed, his chest aching as he pulled in a charcoaled breath. He couldn’t see his brother through the smoke and he was starting to feel dizzy as hell. Sam had to do something. He had to get them out of here. If the fire didn’t kill them, the Basan certainty would, and Sam wasn’t willing to die here. Unfortunately, the Basan had other ideas.
It appeared from behind the smoke cloud, its brightly coloured feathers illuminating the thick black roiling air. Tilting its head to the side, Sam was sure it made a sound like a laugh as it launched towards him, its distended claws the last thing Sam saw before his mind went blank.
Chapter Two
His arm was on fire.
For a moment, Dean felt a surreal detached sensation as he watched the orange flames dance up his dark jacket. Reality hit him harder than he could have imagined. Pain flared up his entire arm, the skin burning. He yelped and suddenly remembered he needed to put it out. In his panic, he dropped onto the floor and rolled around in an attempt to douse the scalding fire.
It took seconds to put the flames out, but it felt longer to Dean. His arm was burnt beneath the jacket, he was sure, but he didn’t exactly have time to think about it. He was suddenly aware that the room was filled with thick, black smoke. The acrid taste of it burnt the back of his throat, tearing down his windpipe with jagged claws. The Basan was hissing and shrieking in a nails-down-a-chalk-board kind of way that made Dean’s teeth ache, but he wasn’t focused on the moving chicken drumstick. His gaze was locked onto his brother’s limp form.
Sam was slouched back against the wall, his head lowered so it was resting on his chest. Dean couldn’t see his brother’s face, shrouded beneath too-long dark hair, but the fact he wasn’t up and kicking Big Birds ass was a bad sign – especially considering the Basan was stalking closer towards Sam.
Half-staggering to his feet, he clamped his hand around the handgun he had dropped when he’d gone up like a human candle. Dean ignored the fact his arm and back were flaring with angry pain and ran.
His leg buckled beneath him and forced his newly-healed ankle to take his weight as he slapped a fresh magazine into the gun. He found traction after two steps, the pain that had been shooting up his leg dissipating as he barrelled across the room. Sam was down, and the Basan looked ready to make his brother into chicken feed. No way in hell was Dean letting that happen. He fired the entire clip into the creature, ignoring the anguished screams that erupted from its mouth. It writhed, throwing its head back and listed off into the smoke. Dean kept his gun raised, sliding it back and forth, expecting the Basan to reappear. Time seemed to crawl to a halt as he strained to hear in the all-to-still room, but Dean wasn’t willing to wait around for Chicken Little to make another grand entrance. He slipped his weapon into the back of his jeans and turned his attention to his brother.
Cupping Sam’s chin in his hands, he lifted his brother’s head off his chest, grazing his eyes over the dark patch and torn material on Sam’s shoulder. There was a substantial amount of blood staining his shirt, but it was the rattling wheeze as Sam’s ribs caved in and out that worried him. Splitting his gaze between the smoke-filled room, Dean felt edgy as hell that the Basan wasn’t in sight. What the hell was it doing? The rounds had probably hurt the bird, but Dean wasn’t stupid enough to think being shot would kill it. Suddenly he knew how Tom felt when Jerry disappeared.
His thoughts were broken as he tried to stifle a spluttering cough with no success. The air was so thick and his lungs were burning as he breathed the heavy toxins in. He covered his mouth and nose with his uninjured forearm, unable to stop the coughs wracking him now. Wave after wave of paroxysmal spasms raced through him until he could barely inhale at all. His vision was starting to darken around the edges and Dean knew he wasn’t going to last much longer in the house.
With trembling and clumsy fingers, he curled his fists into his brother’s shirt and hoisted all six-foot-four of Sam off the ground, pushing the pain aside.
They both wavered; Sam because he was a dead-weight, Dean because he was dizzy as hell. He ignored his wobbling vision as much as he could, and somehow managed to drag his brother over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Moving as quickly as he could on shaky legs, and with the added weight of his brother, Dean moved into the adjacent room – a second reception – before moving into the hallway. There were only ghostly wraiths of smoke here and his lungs took a tremulous breath, grateful for the clean air, hypoxic muscles appreciative of the new oxygen flooding their cells.
Desperate to get into the fresh air, and to get his brother out of danger, Dean staggered up the narrow corridor and hit the front door at a run. Fumbling with the latch, he was out into the fresh air in less than a minute. Dean didn’t stop running, however. He took the steps down from the porch quickly, and stumbled across the front lawn towards the Impala. His baby had never looked as frigging good as it did now.
He gently lowered his brother off his back, propping him against the side-panelling, one hand clamped against the shoulder that wasn’t blood soaked as he fumbled for the handle. His chest felt as if elastic bands had been wound tightly around his lungs and he was still spluttering like an emphysema patient. His arm was throbbing electrically but Dean didn’t even acknowledge it. It wouldn’t take the Basan long to figure out they had left the house, and Dean really was not looking for a re-match. He’d come back later, with bigger guns and a fire-extinguisher and watch Big Bird squirm.
Somehow, Dean managed to manoeuvre his little brother into the passenger seat of the car. Sam still hadn’t roused and he was limp as hell during the entire procedure. By the time Dean had lifted Sam’s legs into the foot well, he was breathing heavily. He was also wheezing like an asthmatic mid-attack, but he couldn’t really do much about smoke inhalation at the moment.
Turning his attention back to his unconscious little brother, he quickly reached under the back seat for the first aid kit. He wanted to get out of there quickly, but he didn’t want Sam to bleed to death while they were escaping. Dean didn’t spare his brother’s t-shirt any mercy as he tugged it out of his jeans and pushed it up so it was bunched around his arm pits. The material clung to the bloodied wounds and Dean carefully, but quickly, prised it free.
The wounds weren’t long but they were deep, and they were still bleeding. Normally, Dean would have cleaned them out with saline, packed them with gauze and found the nearest clinic able to give tetanus – and probably rabies – shots. He didn’t have time for that, however, and instead settled for simply covering the wounds and taping the gauze down. He could look at them later. For now, his plan was simple: get the hell out of Dodge.
The Basan had other ideas.
It appeared out of the darkness like a chicken-shaped-wraith, shrieking like a banshee. Dean instantly pulled his torso out of the car, and whirled to face it. The Basan was pissed, and from the purple goo running down its beautiful technicolour feathers, Dean guessed he was the reason why. It was just annoying as hell that his .45 hadn’t even slowed the creature down.
Dean closed the door of the car slowly, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. Sam was still unconscious, his chest heaving as he took shuddering breaths. At least he was safer in the car – for now.
Dean shifted on his feet, moving away from the car step by step, attempting to draw it away from his brother. His limbs felt a little rubbery beneath his legs, but no way in hell was he and letting Big Bird take a swipe at them both. The fact this thing wasn’t deep-fried already suggested that Sam must not have finished the sigil.
Sam had figured out pretty early in the research that the damn sigil was the only way to kill Chicken not-so-Little. It was a series of complicated markings and some language that Dean couldn’t even pronounce, let alone copy. Sam had shoved a picture of the sigil into Dean’s hand before they’d even gotten out of the car, telling him he’d have to finish it if he couldn’t. But Dean was even less of an artist than Sam, and even if he wasn’t at risk of being flame-grilled, Dean doubted he could have drawn it. He glanced at the now burning house, smoke and flames licking through the windows at the back of the house, Sam’s half-completed sigil probably already destroyed and sighed.
So much for Plan A.
With a slow hand, he pulled the gun from his waistband. He knew it was about as useful as slinging mud at a poltergeist, but running out of damn ideas. He emptied what remained of the clip into the creature, slammed a new magazine in and emptied half of it before the Basan slammed into him.
The weight of the bird, and the momentum of its attack, carried them both into the side of the Impala with a heavy thunk. White hot pain raced through his entire pelvis and lower back as he was crushed between the cold metal of the car and the two hundred pound bird.
“Son of a bitch!” He pushed a hand underneath the mass of feathers, cringing at the slick oiliness and shoved savagely. “If you’ve damaged my paintwork, I swear to God I’ll-“
That was as far as the threat went.
Dean’s feet suddenly left the ground, his gun slipping through his fingers as he flew through the air like a human dart. The landing was less graceful than the flight. He slammed into the lawn hard enough to wind him, this time his spine taking the full force. Dazed, he blinked sluggishly at the twinkling stars overhead and didn’t attempt to move, not even sure he could. His entire body was hurting, his arm, his hips, and his spine. Something warm was trailing down the side of his face. With awkward fingers he reached up and wasn’t surprised they came away blood-slicked.
The Basan shrieked into the night sky, more wolf-like than bird. Dean twisted his head across the grassy ground as the giant bird stalked towards him, cooing and cawing between screams, huge talons sinking into the grass. It was looking at him like he was a sirloin covered in gravy. It made Dean uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure he liked being considered a food source.
Dean rolled onto his front clumsily but he didn’t manage to get his hands underneath him. A sharp agonising pain exploded through his thigh as the Basan pinned him down with its clawed feet. His leg felt as if it was being torn apart. Dean arched his back, trying to get free of its grip, but the Basan wasn’t done playing games yet. It dug its knife-like talon deeper into the fleshy part of Dean’s leg mercilessly. The yelp that emitted from Dean’s lips was completely primal and so pain-filled that for a brief moment he didn’t realise it had come from his own mouth. Technicoloured spots danced in front of his eyes, dripping across his sight like a feathered curtain coming down on a stage. Then it released and pulled the talon out. The exit was almost as bad as the entrance. Dean was blind for a second before his vision wobbled back into focus. He didn’t waste any time dwelling on the pain, or the fact his thigh was already warm with his own blood. Survival instincts were on overdrive, and if Dean was going down, he was going down swinging – and he was taking Big Bird with him.
His body had other ideas, however. Pushing his elbows into the dewy grass, he attempted to rise, but his leg wasn’t cooperating. His jeans were already soaked with his own blood and the limb felt dead. With grim certainty, Dean realised there wasn’t a chance in hell he was walking out of this mess.
Instead, he did the only thing he could. He propelled himself backwards using his elbows and his one working leg. He barely moved before the Basan was clamping its large foot over his newly-healed ankle, pinning him to the ground. The merest touch sent him into agony which seemed to please the Basan. It pushed harder, putting more weight onto the damaged limb. Dean threw his head back against the ground, the muscles in his throat taut as he attempted to stifle the scream on his lips. His ankle bone creaked and groaned under the Basan’s weight. He was sure it was a second from breaking. The bastard was toying with him, like a cat with a bird, only, Dean was the damn bird. It tilted its head to one side, considering him as he tried to wriggle his ankle free to little avail. Breathing heavily, whimpering quietly, Dean closed his eyes and tried to get a hold of his pain. It was consuming him, making him dizzy and nauseous as hell. He couldn’t control it. Hell, he could barely think straight. His entire leg was thrumming with electric agony that had every pain-receptor in his body on red alert.
“Hey!”
Dean shifted his gaze behind the Basan to see his brother leaning heavily against the passenger door of the Impala. He was pale as hell, wheezing, but he had Dean’s favourite shotgun trained on Chicken Little.
“Sammy…” Dean’s relief almost overwhelmed him, but then he should have known that his little brother wouldn’t let this oversized turkey turn him into giblets.
“Let him go you son of a bitch!” Sam’s voice shook and sounded hoarse, but it was the most welcoming sound Dean had EVER heard.
The Basan slowly turned to glance over its shoulder, snarling deeply. Dean hadn’t imagined a bird could express emotions but the thing radiated malice as it tightened its hold on his ankle. Dean couldn’t help it this time. He screamed in agony. He was sure it had snapped the bone.
Sam didn’t let it do more than that. With a quick finger, he pulled the trigger and released two rounds into it.
The Basan imploded. Two rounds and it imploded. Feathers and bits of the Basan itself spattered up Dean’s face, purple goo liberally coating his legs and the ground as well. Dean closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth, not wanting to smell the rotten decaying stench that was fusing the air, and instead focused on his throbbing ankle, thigh, arm and head.
“Dean?” His name was followed by a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder. Dean’s eyes flew open, Sam’s worried face appearing in front of him.
“Man, I have never been so damn glad to see you in my life,” Dean murmured breathlessly, appraising his brother quickly for damage. Sam seemed sluggish, congested as hell, but he was in one piece. Dean guessed the fresh air had done him some good.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Sam slurred, moving to examine Dean’s leg. He hissed as his younger brother pulled back his shredded jeans. “Sorry. It looks pretty nasty.”
“Yeah, Big Bird did a real number on me.” He winced again at his brother’s less than gentle touch. His hands were shaky, probably from the smoke inhalation, possibly from his wounds, possibly a concussion. “Easy… on the merchandise, Sam.”
Sam snorted softly under his breath, and then pulled a face. “Your leg looks like mince, and your arm…” Sam’s expression was grim.
“Don’t sugar-coat it, will you?” Dean muttered. His arm was agony, his ankle throbbing, but one look at his brother and he was able to push it aside for a brief second. “How you feeling? You were pretty out of it. What happened?”
Sam’s lips tightened into an amused line. “Smoke inhalation, shock at being sliced and diced by a fire-breathing chicken – take you pick, dude.” Sam’s voice was tired and hoarse still.
“My next question is how the hell did you kill it? I emptied three clips into the son of a bitch and nothing.”
Sam actually grinned. “I used special rounds.”
When Dean raised a brow, his brother pulled out a clear vial and held it up for him to see.
“Is that…?”
“Holy water,” Sam finished, sliding tiredly onto his knees next to Dean. “I figured since it was fire-based, water would probably have some kind of adverse affect.”
Dean blinked. He hadn’t even thought of that. His brother’s ingenuity amazed him sometimes. “OK, Erkel, that’s uh… what I was gonna try next.”
Sam merely raised a brow but didn’t contend it. He reached under Dean’s armpit and gripping his wrist, pulled his arm around his neck. Together they managed to get Dean upright, albeit shakily. His leg was throbbing now, as was his singed arm. Dean hadn’t even tried to get his jacket off to see the damaged.
“You’re gonna need to see a doctor,” Sam noted, tensing a little, no doubt expecting an argument. Dean sighed. He hated doctors, but he knew Sam was right about this one.
“Yeah, I know.” They could treat the burns themselves but the wound to his thigh was deep – surgery deep – and his ankle was a mess. “You too. That whole ‘sleeping-on-the-job’ thing makes me twitchy. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
Dean let his brother take some of his weight while he tried to find traction in the damaged limb. He could feel Sam trembling wearily beside him and didn’t want to put too much weight on his weakened brother. His ankle and thigh protested at being used, and Dean realised quickly that there was no chance in hell he was going to be able to weigh-bear on the limb. He closed his eyes and bit on his bottom lip as he tried to stand on it again, receiving a shot of red-hot pain for his trouble.
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Just take your time,” Sam said softly, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm and waist. Sam was pretty much the only thing keeping him on his feet at the moment. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He then turned back to Sam. “So? Did you hit your head?”
“It was the smoke, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “There was just too much of it, and I couldn’t catch my breath.”
Dean prised one eye open. “You fainted.”
Sam scowled. “I did not faint.”
Dean snorted, giving up on trying to walk himself, finally letting his brother help him. “Well, Francis, you think you can stay awake long enough to drive us to a hospital?”
“I’m glad you’re OK, too, jerk.”
Dean’s lips twitched into a smile. He really was glad his brother was in one piece. That had been close. Too goddamn close. Another thirty seconds and Sam would have been identifying him from dental records.
Sam laughed under his breath suddenly, pulling Dean out of his morbid thoughts. Casting a side long glance at him, Dean frowned. “What?”
“Fire-breathing chickens…” He shook his head, tightening his grip on his brother’s arm. “Man, our lives are weird.”
Dean grunted, and then laughed himself. Weird didn’t even begin to cover it.
The End…
