Supernatural: Coyote's Kiss

by Christa Faust

  The two of them turned to leave. Xochi paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking back over her shoulder at Dean. She was obviously worried, but trying not to show it. Sam didn’t look back at all.

  Dean could handle pain, but he had no idea what to do when Toci started yanking at his clothes like a drunk bachelorette at a Chippendales show. When he tried to stop her from pulling his shirt off, she slapped his good hand and said something stern. Dean had never had any strong female authority figures growing up and had absolutely no idea how to cope with being bossed around and man-handled by a little old lady. He had no choice but to let Toci have the shirt. But then she started unbuckling his belt.

  TWENTY

  “Whoa,” he said. “Look, lady, the cut’s on my hand.” He held his hand up as proof. “Hand! See? You don’t need to...”

  She shoved him backwards onto the bed and pulled his pants down to his ankles.

  “Okay then,” Dean said, looking up at his own mortified expression reflected in the mirrored tiles on the ceiling.

  Toci unlaced his boots and took them off, then removed his jeans completely. Laying there on the bed dressed in nothing but crumpled white socks, he was really quite glad Sam and Xochi had left the room. Dean had never quite imagined his life might end like this. Naked in a Tijuana brothel with an eighty-year-old woman dressed like Janine from Spinal Tap sizing up his junk and looking distinctly unimpressed. He really wished the room wasn’t so heavily air-conditioned.

  He knew there was no point fighting Toci. Whatever she needed to do to heal him, even if it included some kind of mystical ancient Aztec prostate exam, he’d just have to take it and like it. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice.

  When she got down to business, Dean forgot all about feeling self-conscious. Xochi hadn’t been lying when she’d warned him that it would hurt. It was all he could do to keep still and keep whatever moans of agony he couldn’t stifle from cranking up into the girlier octaves.

  What she was doing probably wasn’t all that dissimilar to one of Castiel’s angel cavity searches. But rather than sticking her hand into his chest, she was somehow teasing the wounded portion of his soul out through the cut on his palm. He hadn’t been that far off when he asked Xochi if she was going to put stitches in his soul. Unfortunately, there was no such thing as spiritual anesthesia.

  When she finally stopped, he let out a long, shaky breath and clenched his wounded hand. It still hurt, but it was a pain he could handle.

  Toci threw a fuzzy red blanket over his shivering body, tucking him in with a surprisingly tender touch considering her previously gruff demeanor.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Um... gracias?”

  She patted his chest and said something to him that he didn’t understand, but it didn’t seem to require a response. Then she called out for Xochi.

  Xochi had clearly been waiting right on the other side of the door as she came in the second she was called. She had changed out of her blood-splattered tank top and into a cheap T-shirt that featured a pair of sexy female silhouettes and read “My friends got busy at Tia Lupe’s and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.” Her hair was bound back into the long twin braids she’d been sporting when they’d first met. No flowers. There was a brief exchange between her and Toci and then the older woman left the two of them alone.

  “So what’s the prognosis?” Dean asked. “Am I gonna make it?”

  “Your soul is still very sick, but healing.” She spotted the crumpled pile of Dean’s clothing on the carpet and looked up at him with a very slight smile.

  “It wasn’t my idea, believe me,” he said.

  She didn’t reply, just stood there with that same arch humor in her eyes.

  “What? Isn’t that part of this whole healing mojo thing?”

  Xochi shook her head.

  “You don’t really need to be naked,” she said. “I think she just wanted to check out your body.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No,” she said, smile blooming. “I’m joking. Tight clothing restricts the flow of natural energy that you will need for the healing.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” he said. “I think all you Aztec chicks are up to no good. Trying to take advantage of a sick, defenseless gringo.”

  “If I wanted to take advantage,” she said, “I’m perfectly capable of doing it while you are strong and healthy. Or have you forgotten already?”

  Dean hadn’t forgotten.

  “Is your grandmother coming back?” he asked.

  “She just went for some more supplies,” Xochi said.

  “She’ll be back soon. She still has a lot more healing to do.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” Dean said. “I barely made it through the first round.”

  “I’m sorry,” Xochi said.

  He could see that she really meant it. Under the wisecracks, she was still worried.

  “You know,” Dean said, gesturing with his uninjured hand. “If we were in an action movie, this would be the scene where you tenderly dress my wounds. Then the wailing electric guitar ballad would kick in and we’d end up rolling around on the bed in a slow motion montage.”

  “If we were in Q, The Winged Serpent,” Xochi replied, “this would be the scene where I sacrifice you to Quetzalcoatl.”

  “I thought you said you’d never seen that movie.”

  She took her phone out of her pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then turned it to face Dean.

  “I was curious,” she said.

  On the phone’s screen, the Aztec priest was about to cut some poor bastard’s heart out on top of the Chrysler Building.

  “Sam is right,” she said. “This movie is terrible. Look, he’s holding that knife all wrong.”

  Dean laughed, the laugh trailing off into a weak cough. His chest felt heavy, his right arm still leaden and strange.

  “So,” Dean said. “Does this mean you won’t tend my wounds?”

  “I’m a great hunter,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall. “But I’m a terrible nurse.”

  Dean realized he didn’t want to be alone.

  “Just sit with me, then,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to talk about?”

  She stayed standing, arms still crossed. Wary.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Please?”

  She came over to the bed and sat perched on the edge.

  “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Los Campeones Justicieros,” she said. “Mil Máscaras was my hero growing up.”

  “Mil always did have the pimpin’ wardrobe. You gotta love a guy that’s man enough to fight monsters in leopard spandex.”

  “That might be a good style for you,” she said. “I can introduce you the best tailor in Mexico City. She makes ring gear for all the top luchadores.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “When I’m facing off against an unholy soul-sucking abomination from beyond the grave, I want something a little more substantial than spandex to protect my future children.”

  “What is your favorite movie?” she asked.

  “Hard to pick just one,” he said.

  “Not Q?”

  “No,” he said. “And if you ask me again tomorrow, I’ll probably have a totally different answer, but tonight, I’d have to go with The Monster Squad. I want Shane Black to write all my dialog. Favorite band?”

  “Caifanes.”

  “Never heard of them,” Dean said.

  “I also like the British band Led Zeppelin.”

  “Yeah?” Dean smiled. “What’s your favorite Zep song?”

  “‘Ramble On,’” she said. “I feel like that song has so much meaning for me, for my life. You know?”

  He looked up at her.

  “Don’t you have someone? Boyfriend?”

  She shook her head.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No,” she said. “No one. I mean, I tri
ed but...” She shrugged again. “I was a terrible wife too.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know,” she said. “Things don’t always work out.”

  Dean didn’t say anything. He could sense she wanted to say more. He waited.

  “I tried to walk away... to be a normal person.” She looked down at her scarred hands. “But this life. Hunting. It’s the only thing I’m really good at.”

  He wanted to tell her that he got it, that he understood so well it hurt, but again he couldn’t find the words. She crossed her arms again, turning her body away from him. Distant, sealing herself up.

  “Maybe you just need to find someone more like you,” he said.

  She looked back at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone who really understands you,” he said. “What you’ve been through. Someone who’s been there. You know, someone you can trust to have your back in a fight.”

  “Someone like you, maybe?” She smiled, just a little. “Dean, you want to be my boyfriend?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I just meant...”

  “That is a beautiful dream,” she said. “Warrior lovers, fighting side by side, going down together in a blaze of glory. But you and I, we are so much alike, aren’t we? And as beautiful as that dream may be, I know that you don’t really want that any more than I do.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “The same thing you want. The thing we’ve both wanted so desperately ever since we were children. The thing we both need and fear we may never be allowed to have.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” Dean asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

  “A home,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he was crazy for asking.

  She was getting way too close to messy, painful truths that Dean thought he’d buried good and deep. Feelings about Lisa and Ben, about his dead mother and Sam and all those long sleepless nights on the road. He needed to crack a joke, to reinforce the armor. To regain control of the conversation and steer it back to safer waters.

  “Okay, so forget the whole blaze of glory thing,” Dean said. “How about gratuitous, casual sex?”

  He was only half kidding.

  She laughed, but he could hear the relief underneath her laugh. She was as glad to change the subject as he was.

  “That would be very nice,” she said turning away from him again. “But I don’t think you understand how badly you are hurt. You need to conserve your energy to heal your soul.”

  He put his uninjured hand on the small of her back, following the channel of her spine with his fingertips.

  “You could lend me some of yours,” he said.

  She arched her back almost imperceptibly against his touch, making a wordless, throaty purring sound so soft Dean thought maybe he was imagining it.

  Toci chose that moment to return, lugging a large woven plastic bag.

  Xochi stood, exchanging a few words with her grandmother. The old woman took out a beat-up plastic two-liter soda bottle with no label and handed it to Xochi. It was full of something that wasn’t soda. Something pale, milky and viscous. Xochi took the bottle and looked back at Dean. Her gaze was guarded, but he was almost sure he saw something there. Some kind of connection maybe. She turned and left the room before he could be sure.

  Toci came to his bedside and pulled a second bottle of that strange beverage from the bag. She unscrewed the plastic cap and held it to his lips, telling him something he didn’t understand. He had no choice but to drink it. Drink it or wear it.

  Whatever it was, it was alcoholic. It tasted sort of like rotten pears soaked in moonshine and had an unpleasant, slimy texture. When she pulled the bottle away from his lips, there was a snotty clear stringer like Alien spit connecting the mouth of the bottle to his lower lip. His stomach did a slow lurching roll, but the warm familiar burn of the alcohol spread through him, relaxing the knots in his spine and dulling the pain in his hand.

  Toci poured some of the gooey liquid into a plastic bowl and added a bunch of dried plants and powders. Dean couldn’t help noticing a large amount of orange marigold petals. If this worked, he promised to take back anything bad he’d ever said about the humble little flower.

  Round two was even worse, if that was possible. It seemed to go on for hours and when it was done, Dean was close to passing out. He hoped the moisture on his face was sweat and not tears.

  The herbs had been steeping in the strange milky liquor while Toci worked, imbuing it with a bitter peppery scent. Dean thought she was going to make him drink it, but instead she gave him another, unadulterated swig straight from the plastic bottle and then used the stuff in the bowl to soak his hand.

  She lit several candles in glass tubes, inscribed with various lurid designs: burning women and tattooed hands and curious symbols. Then, she pulled his hand out of the bowl and wrapped it in gauze. She spoke some melodic words over him and then turned and left him alone in the tacky room.

  Dean drifted. Dreamed of Lisa. Of home.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Xochi found Sam sitting on the curb outside the garage connected to their room. A group of prostitutes were hanging around by the door to the office, eyeing Sam like he was a raw steak in a dog kennel. He was lost in thought, however; ignoring them completely.

  Xochi sat down on the curb beside him. She unscrewed the cap off the bottle her grandmother had given her, took a long swallow and then handed it to Sam. He nodded and drank. Made a funny face, like a baby who’d been given a chili pepper for the first time.

  “What the hell is that stuff?” Sam asked, wiping his lips on the back of a big fist.

  “Pulque,” Xochi said. “Help me finish the bottle and I’ll show you how to spit the last sip in the shape of a scorpion.”

  “Poolkay?” He took another swig. “It’s kinda weird, but I kinda like it.”

  “It’s made from fermented maguey, very thick and sticky,” she said. “When you get to the bottom of the bottle, you spit that last sticky mouthful onto the floor and if the pulque is good, your spit will look like a scorpion.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Sam said, taking one more swig and then passing the bottle back to Xochi.

  She drank deep, and tried to organize her chaotic thoughts.

  “Sam,” she said. “I know I can say this to you and you will not react badly, but I need to make sure you and I understand each other.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Shoot.”

  “What happened to your brother is my fault,” Xochi said. “He was cut because he was trying to protect me. For that I am sorry.” She paused. Passed the bottle. “He is not out of danger. There is still a chance that he may not make it.”

  “I know,” Sam said. He drank. No reaction.

  “He’s a good hunter,” she said. “I like fighting next to him. If he dies tonight, I will own that responsibilty for the rest of my life.”

  She could still feel Dean’s touch on the base of her spine. She held her hand out for the bottle. Sam handed it back to her. She took a swig.

  “What I must ask is this,” she said. “Sam, are you still with me in this fight, no matter what happens to your brother? Because I want Dean to make it... to fight with us... but I need you. Do you understand? If he dies, you and I can still do this. But without you...”

  “No problem,” he said without hesitation. “I’m in. No matter what.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The two of them drank in silence for a few minutes. They watched the prostitutes share cigarettes and hustle clients. One of the younger ones got lucky. Xochi watched her steer her tipsy American prey into one of the rooms, shamelessly clipping his wallet before she’d even unlocked the door.

  “What does it feel like,” Xochi asked. “Not having a soul?”

  “It doesn’t feel like anything,” Sam replied. “I mean, I can tell something’s missing. Like I know I’m supposed to be upse
t by the idea that my brother might die, but I’m not. Because I know you and I can handle this hunt without him.” He looked at her, then away. “The thing is, when I know there’s something I’m supposed to be feeling, something important, I just can’t seem to leave it alone in my head. Even if I’m not sure what it is, I keep on thinking about it. Thinking in circles. It’s like...” He swirled the milky contents of the bottle, staring into nothing for a moment before taking another swallow. “It’s like having a pulled tooth. You can’t stop touching the space where it used to be with your tongue. It was much worse when I first came back. But now... I think I’m getting used to that hole. Sometimes I think I’m better off this way.”

  He handed the pulque back to Xochi and she looked into his eyes, green eyes like Dean’s, but flat and lifeless. She suddenly felt like a monster.

  What Sam was going through was horrible, a unique and profound kind of torment that she could only imagine, and never once had she even bothered to think of what it was like for him. All this time, she’d looked at the big gringo as nothing more than a useful tool. A piece of the puzzle presented by her visions. A weapon that she knew would be critical to her victory. She still had her soul, or whatever tattered shreds might be left after everything she’d been through, and yet here she was thinking just like Sam. Thinking only about winning this fight no matter what the cost. But every day this boy spent without his soul, he was becoming less and less human. He shouldn’t be wasting time hunting with her, he should be fighting to get his soul back. Before he gets too comfortable with that hole.

  “No,” she said, handing him the bottle. “You’re not better off like this. Now, for this hunt, maybe, but not in the long run.”

  “You don’t know the whole story,” Sam said. “I have my reasons.” He drank. Wiped his lips. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. All you need to know is that I’m gonna see this thing through with you. You can count on me.”

  Xochi nodded. She wasn’t going to argue with that.

  “You know,” Sam said, passing the bottle back. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about. Something that’s been bothering me for a while now.”