Puppy Chow

Short one-shot. Spoilers for 8x14. I really, really, REALLY wanted Dean to get up and take care of that damn hellhound himself so…. Thanks to any who have a look, I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!

Claws dig in and rip across tender flesh, a classic throwback to the good old days when his name was at the top of Cujo's most wanted, destined to die bloody list.

The impact of the beast against him tears the newly fashioned hell goggles from his face and the knife is ripped out of his feeble grasp as his back slams against the ground.

Christ, he hates friggin' hellhounds.

Crystallized air of the thing appears directly beside him, the stench of death wafting into his personal space and bringing with it a barrage of unwanted memories from within the depths of his tattered soul.

Seriously? Now he decides to have a PTSD moment?

A shotgun blast rings out and brings him back to the present, a smirk settling on his lips when the damn thing actually yelps; a reminder that it's just a dog, a hopped up on steroids dog, sure, but still, it's only a mangy mutt; one that he is just itching to put down.

Hold up, that means that Sam is here. Crap, he had it under control, what part of 'don't follow' is so hard to freakin' understand? Damn kid never listens and now bastard dog has another chew toy to have a run at. Peachy.

Frick, sure enough the hound turns as the next shot echoes into the night, sending a shiver down his spine; the thought of Satan's lapdog setting its reddened eyes on his brother bringing home the entire point of this exercise; close the damn gates of Hell and keep Sammy safe.

Using the distraction to get a fricken' grip and do his damn job, he ignores the fire that's raging through every fibre of his body; the sensation of blood free flowing down his side only serving to piss him off more.

Breathing through the pain and forcing it down deep, he rises from the earth to stand on shaky yet supportive legs; steadily gaining strength and momentum in his purpose as the sound of Sam's ragged breathing reaches his ears.

Scooping up his specs and discarded knife as he goes he leads the charge, setting his own darkened gaze on savagely ending the battle that rages mere feet away.

No way is Sam going to fight this or any other damn trial that God has in store; that privilege, that burden, is his alone.

"Hey! Fido! Come and get some, you ugly piece of…"


Okay, maybe he should have planned this out a little better.

The thing is on him again, savage teeth fighting to clamp onto any piece they can get to. Sweat starts to pool in every conceivable crevasse as his body starts to falter, blood loss and fatigue starting to make his usually sharp instincts lethargic and tempered in their effectiveness.

A moan is torn from his throat as he's sliced again with those damn claws; an instant numbness spreading throughout his arm as it rebels against the onslaught.

"Dean, hold on!"

Sam. Keep Sam safe.

Gathering in his errant senses, he curls his fingers tightly around the blade, stares directly into the eyes of Hell and spits out venomous words through gritted teeth.

"That was your last mistake, Cujo. See, first you went after my brother and well, that's just plain stupid. But then you really screwed up, picked the wrong arm. Didn't daddy dearest teach you to always go after the one that's holding the damn knife? Consider yourself official puppy chow."

The blade thrusts forward and embeds itself into the flesh of the creature, the howl it emits only spurring him on to shove it further, right to the hilt.

He leans in; sweat dripping and hatred oozing out of every pore, to whisper one final message.

"Tell daddy 'up yours' for me, would ya?"

Gripping the blade with both hands he hisses as his body protests the movement but smiles when his reward is being saturated by it; the vile, pungent, totally offensive yet oddly beautiful fluid as it pours out of the hellhound, until the beast gurgles its last breath and he narrowly escapes getting crushed by the damn thing on its way down.

He stays where he is and presses a hand against his flesh to try and staunch the flow of blood, waiting for Sam to come along and help him to his feet. A smile graces his features when his brother arrives safe and in one piece; grabbing him tenderly and slowly easing him up to a vertical position. He looks guilty and damn if he's gonna let him go there.

"Told ya I could do it man, but looks like I shoulda shot you in the damn leg after all, huh?"

Sam's smalll chuckle fills him with warmth and solidifies his determination to finish this thing.

"You are such a jerk, Dean. C'mon, let's get you fixed up before you bleed to death."

"Relax, bitch, it's a good day. Dean Winchester, 1. God's obstacle course? Big freakin' zero."

The End. Thanks for stopping by! :)