by Tim Waggoner
He thrusts his knife into the creature’s chest from the right side, giving the strike a little extra oomph to force the blade in as deep as possible. Unfortunately, he has no more luck than his brother did, and the strike has no effect on the Lord. This time, though, the creature doesn’t lash out and knock Sam aside. Instead, one of his claw-hands shoots forward, moving far faster than Sam would have expected, and bony fingers wrap around his throat and squeeze, instantly closing off his airway.
Sam withdraws the knife and thrusts it into the Lord’s midsection several more times in rapid succession, but the creature doesn’t react. No blood comes from the wounds, only small puffs of dust. Lungs burning, vision starting to go gray around the edges, Sam panics. He tries to stab the Lord in the eye, hoping to reach the monster’s brain, but his swing is wild, his aim off, and the knife connects with the antler on the left side of the creature’s head. The impact sends a jolt up through Sam’s arm, and he hears a loud crack. He barely registers the antler detaching from the Lord’s head and falling to the floor. His attention is caught by the sight of a vertical seam opening in the middle of the monster’s chest. It yawns wide like a toothless mouth, and all Sam can see inside is darkness. He remembers Stewart’s description of how the Lord feeds—He takes hold of the animals, hugs them to his chest, and then his body just kind of sucks them in—and then he feels the creature pulling him toward the fissure of blackness. Sam can feel cold wafting forth from the opening, and he wonders what waits for him on the other side. He prays that he’ll lose consciousness before he finds out.
But then the Lord of the Hunt stiffens, throws back its head, and lets out a scream that is in no way remotely human. Its hand springs open, and Sam—freed from the monster’s grasp—staggers backward, gasping for breath. Dean stands behind the Lord, teeth gritted, face a mask of fury as he shoves the creature’s broken-off antler deeper into its back. In this moment, Sam thinks that Dean has never looked so much like their dad before.
The Lord of the Hunt might shrug off knife attacks, but he isn’t immune to his own antler. Several of the sharp points have penetrated the creature’s leathery skin, and Dean keeps up the pressure, pushing them in even deeper. The Lord continues to scream, hands waving uselessly, as if trying to grab hold of its attacker, but they only succeed in slashing through empty air. And then—so fast Sam almost doesn’t register it happening—the Lord of the Hunt collapses into dust. One instant it’s standing there, the next it’s gone, leaving nothing behind but a small mound of grayish-yellow powder in its place, and the knife that Dean had left stuck in its side. Dean—the antler he was holding gone, turned to dust like the rest of the creature—looks at his hands with awed puzzlement, as if he’s just witnessed a particularly baffling magic trick. Sam figures he’s wearing the same expression as his brother right now. And then he remembers…
“The Underwoods!” he says.
He spins around to face them, knowing the knife in his hand is no match for their guns, but also knowing that he won’t go down without a fight. He expects to hear triple blasts, to feel the impact of bullets slamming into his body. But he hears and feels nothing. The Underwoods are no longer standing. They lie on the floor, arms and legs bent at odd angles, and while they still hold onto their guns, they make no move to raise them. Their bodies are emaciated, their skin leathery and mottled, just as the Lord’s was. Their eyes are wide and staring, and at first Sam thinks the three of them are dead, but then he hears a soft breath escape Gretchen’s mouth. He rushes over to her, ignoring Dean’s call for him to stop, that she could still be dangerous. He kneels beside her, leans down, and places his ear close to her mouth so he can hear her.
“So… sorry.” She breathes more than speaks these words. “We shouldn’t have… have…” Then she lets out a final wisp of breath and is gone.
Sam checks her for a pulse with a trembling hand, and then he does the same for Julie and Stewart. All three of them are dead.
Sam stands, and Dean walks over to join him. For a time they gaze upon the Underwoods’ remains, and then together they head up the stairs.
* * *
“Seriously, Sam—you have got to try one of these crullers.” Dean fished one out of the bag and held it out to his brother. “Come on, at least smell it. You know you want to…”
Sam didn’t respond right away. He was gazing through Doughnutz’s front window, lost in thought.
Dean raised his voice slightly. “Sam, you okay?”
“Hmmm?” Sam turned to look at Dean, and then his gaze fell on the cruller. “No thanks. Coffee’s all I want right now.” As if to illustrate his point, he picked up his extra-large cup and took a sip.
“Too much coffee on an empty stomach’s not good,” Dean said. “Let Mr. Cruller help.”
Sam just smiled and took another sip of coffee.
Dean shook his head in disappointment. “You’d think by now you’d know to listen to your big brother. So, what were you thinking about?”
Sam looked around before answering. Doughnutz had significantly more customers than the last time the brothers had been in, and the drive-thru had a steady stream of traffic. Dean figured they were all worshippers of one god or another, or maybe they were between gods, trying to figure out who would be a good candidate to try their luck with next. Most were in pairs or small groups, and their conversations were lively, good-spirited, and most of all, loud. It’s like they’re celebrating a damn holiday, he thought. God’s Day.
Satisfied that no one was paying them any attention, Sam turned back to Dean.
“I was thinking about the time Dad was in the hospital in West Virginia, when he left us with the Underwoods.”
Dean frowned. “Why? No—wait. I get it. You figure old Antler-Head was a god.”
Sam nodded. “We’d never encountered one before, so we weren’t sure what it was, but yeah, I think it was a god.”
“Me, too. But not like the ones in this town. That guy was seriously old school.”
“He was ancient. If he’d been in his prime, we never would’ve beaten him.”
“What do you mean we? As I recall, I was the one who took him out and saved your butt.”
“You had no idea you could kill him by stabbing him with his own antler. You got lucky.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Dean asked.
Sam smiled. “Not a damn thing.”
Dean smiled back and the two sipped coffee for a bit. Then Dean asked, “You think the Lord of the Hunt got started the same way as these new gods?”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe. Then again, different gods might be born different ways. Who knows? The thing I keep thinking about is, why the antler? How come he was vulnerable to that and nothing else?”
“These new gods can be killed by their own weapons. Maybe it’s the same kind of thing. Antlers can be used as weapons, right?”
“But they were attached to his head. He didn’t carry them like these gods do—they were part of him.”
“How do you know what these gods do?” Dean challenged. “We’ve only encountered a couple so far. Maybe some of them are antler-compatible.”
“I suppose.”
Dean could tell by Sam’s tone that there was something about the Lord of the Hunt’s antlers that still bothered him. Dean had no idea what it was, though.
“I’ve been thinking about something else too,” Sam said. “What if we’re the reason this is all happening?”
“I know we both have a thing when it comes to taking responsibility for bad stuff that happens, but in this case, Sammy, I just don’t see it.”
“Hear me out. As near as we can tell from the lore, this process is cyclical, right? It only happens every few thousand years. So what triggers it? What would make a species feel compelled to reproduce?”
Dean shrugged. “If they were humans, I’d say a little soft music, some good booze…” He trailed off and then became serious. “No. It would be when their numbers get low, wouldn’t it? When they’r
e on the verge of extinction.”
“Exactly. There aren’t many ancient gods left around anymore, and the reason for that is—”
“Hunters,” Dean finished. “More specifically, us.”
Sam and Dean had come up against all manner of supernatural creatures during their careers—monsters, demons, witches, angels… and gods. They’d killed a number of so-called deities over the years, some of them pretty big names in the mythology department.
Sam nodded. “I’m not saying we did it all by ourselves. I’m sure lots of gods were killed over the centuries by hunters and Men of Letters all around the world. But what if we pushed the species past the tipping point and kicked off a new reproductive cycle?” Sam paused, and when he continued, his voice was softer. “It’s not like we haven’t caused bad things to happen before. Some of them really bad.”
One of the hardest parts of hunting—at least as far as Dean was concerned—was trying to figure out what the right thing to do was in any given situation. It wasn’t always as easy as “find monster, kill monster, go home.” In fact, it rarely was. The brothers did their best to protect people from the dark forces that sought to prey upon them, but their best wasn’t always enough—which was hard to deal with—and sometimes their actions made things worse. A few times, a lot worse, as in threat-to-the-entire-world’s-survival worse. So far, they’d managed to clean up the messes they’d made and keep the globe spinning, but what if one day they failed, and everyone and everything on the planet died, and it was all their fault? It was thoughts like these that kept Dean up at night.
“I hate to say this,” Dean began, “but if we manage to stop this from happening here, won’t it just start up again somewhere else?”
“Are you saying we should let things run their course? Do you know how many people will die if we do?”
“And if we stop it, how many more will die when it starts all over somewhere else?” Dean countered. “It could happen anywhere in the world, right? So all the people who’ve already died here will have died for nothing—”
“And even more people will die when it begins again,” Sam said.
“Yeah.”
The brothers were silent for several moments, and then Sam said, “‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’”
“Huh? I thought you weren’t hungry?”
“It’s a line from a poem by T.S. Eliot,” Sam explained, “called ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ It’s about a man who desperately wants to do something, but he can’t bring himself to because he’s afraid of the consequences. What if doing something ends up being worse than doing nothing?”
“Sounds like this Prufrock was a hunter.” Dean sighed. “I’ve never been too good at hanging back and waiting to see how a situation plays out. I guess we’ll just have to do what we always do: keep moving forward, do our best, and hope it all works out.”
“I guess so,” Sam said. “It sucks sometimes, though.”
“It sure as hell does,” Dean agreed.
They talked for a little while about what their next move should be. With the number of gods in town, Sam suggested they put a call out to other hunters to come help them but Dean thought it would take too long for them to arrive. He suggested they try to contact Castiel since angels were capable of killing gods, and Sam agreed.
“Cass,” Dean said, keeping his voice low, just in case anyone might be able to hear him over the din of conversation. “You got your ears on?” Seconds ticked by, and when after a full minute Castiel didn’t appear, Dean said, “I guess not.”
“He’s probably busy doing… something,” Sam said.
“Sure. IAS.”
Sam arched a questioning eyebrow.
“Important Angel Stuff,” Dean said. “But I’m only using the word stuff because we’re in public.”
Too bad Cass didn’t answer, Dean thought. We could really use his help on this one. From what they’d seen so far, it looked like the only way to kill the gods was with their own weapons. But getting those weapons away from them wouldn’t be easy. In fact, it was almost guaranteed suicide.
“So now that we’ve gotten up close and personal with a couple of the New Gods on the Block, what do you think of them?” Dean asked.
“They certainly seem modern, at least on the surface. Karrion resembled a killer from an 80s slasher film, while Armament was like Rambo on steroids.”
“But you don’t think they’re actually modern?”
“Not really. They strike me as being newer versions of ancient archetypes. Karrion would be a god of death—”
“And Armament would be a god of war,” Dean said. “I get it. So these gods are what? Copycats who aren’t imaginative enough to come up with original archetypes?”
“I think what’s happening in this town is a natural process, and these gods—despite their names and appearances—are fulfilling the basic roles of their species.”
Dean frowned. “Are you talking about… I don’t know. Supernatural genetics?”
“Something like that. Think about it. There are different pantheons in mythology, but the same sort of gods show up in all of them: storm gods, sun gods, sea gods, gods of speed, gods of strength…”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting a goddess of love. You think there’s one of those out there?”
“I hate to say it, but given the way Karrion and Armament went after each other, if there had been a love goddess in this town, she’s probably dead by now.”
“If that’s true, Valentine’s Day is really going to stink around here.”
Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened and Sheriff Deacon walked in. The brothers waved when they saw him, and he came straight over to their booth.
“You boys still at it, too? Least you were able to change into civvies. Wish I could get away with that. Long nights like this one would be more bearable if you could wear comfortable clothes while you worked.”
“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Sam said.
“Too busy. There have been seven more deaths since we last spoke.” He shook his head wearily. “If this keeps up, the county morgue is going to run out of room.”
“I take it that the deaths were all due to more ‘weird accidents,’” Dean said.
The sheriff frowned at Dean as if he didn’t like his tone. “As a matter of fact, they were. You mind if I ask where you boys have been? I thought you came to town to investigate these kind of deaths.”
Dean held up a cruller. “Donut break,” he said.
The sheriff’s frown deepened, but then it vanished and he grinned. “Don’t blame you. Those are damned good, aren’t they?”
Dean took hold of the bag and held it out to the sheriff. “Want one?”
The sheriff held up a hand. “No thanks. I don’t eat stuff like that anymore. The body’s a temple, you know.”
Dean hadn’t noticed before, but not only did the sheriff seem unaffected by the long hours, he was wide awake and full of energy. He looked better than the last time they’d seen him, too. He’d been in decent shape before, but now he looked… better. He was more muscular, and his skin tone was healthier, as if he’d spent the last few days in the sun. His black hair and mustache were thicker, glossier, and his teeth were so white they practically gleamed. Sam had mentioned the Underwoods a few minutes ago, and the sheriff’s transformation made Dean think of how the three of them had been during the hunt for the Sheepsquatch—fast, strong, and bursting with energy that had been on loan from their god. Energy that had been taken from them, along with the remainder of their life forces, when the Lord of the Hunt died. Dean suspected the sheriff had gotten his bio-makeover from a similar source.
“I thought cops were supposed to practically live on donuts,” Dean said.
“I’ve turned over a new leaf. I hitched my caboose to a fellow named Paeon, and I’m damn glad I did! This is the best I’ve felt in my entire life!” He thumped a fist on his chest to emphasize his words. “You boys should consider doing
the same. I convinced my deputies to follow Paeon, and not a single one of them regrets it.”
Sounds like the sheriff has gotten himself some of that new-time religion, Dean thought. “Thanks, but I don’t think—”
Sam quickly interrupted him. “Paeon sounds like he’s a healer of some sort.”
“He sure is,” Sheriff Deacon said. “Pardon the pun, but he’s a genuine miracle worker!”
“In that case, I think we would like to meet him,” Sam said. He looked at Dean. “Right?”
It took a second for Dean to figure out where Sam was going with this. They had to hope that if Paeon was a god of healing, he wouldn’t be violent like Karrion and Armament. And if that was true, then maybe they would be able to question the god without getting their heads hacked off by a machete or blown off by a quadruple-barreled shotgun.
“Yep. Sounds awesome.”
Dean’s reply was less than enthusiastic, and Sam gave him another look before turning once more to the sheriff.
“Can you take us to meet Paeon?” he asked.
Sheriff Deacon grinned. “Sure thing. All we have to do is step outside.”
He pointed at the window, and Dean and Sam turned to look. Across the street stood what looked like a doctor straight out of a soap opera. He was too tall, too handsome, and his lab coat was white as fresh-fallen snow. Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if light glinted off the man’s perfect teeth when he smiled. The man wasn’t wearing winter clothes—no heavy coat, no hat, scarf or gloves. But then he didn’t need them, did he? Gods didn’t have to worry about unimportant details like frigid temperatures. A number of men and women crowded around Paeon; worshippers or prospective worshippers, Dean assumed. One of them remained close to his side, a short but attractive woman who seemed almost dwarfed by the god.
“Who’s the woman standing with him?” Dean asked.
“That’s Lena Nguyen,” the sheriff said. “She’s a doctor, too, but the normal kind. She’s Paeon’s personal assistant, or something like that. All the gods have one.”
