Chapter Text
Iris Foster soon learned that darkness didn't come by itself. There was always something hiding behind it—a clamor, a truth that should've stayed buried. She was a good hunter, liked what she did, and her house reflected this: it was silent, cold, functional. No pictures, no memories; only shotguns and shooting medals were to be seen on her walls. She cleaned the revolver's barrel as she felt the wind shift outside. Three knocks followed, late at night—strong, dry, deliberate knocks. Iris raised her eyes slowly, her entire body entering a state of alert. Holding the .45 with a firm grip, she moved forward in absolute silence, the hammer cocked. She placed her left hand on the doorknob, pointing the gun at whoever—or whatever—was on the other side. Her breath was as heavy as the way she opened that door. "Dean?"
He was staggering at her door, drained of color and arrogance, not knowing how he was supporting himself. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, yet he still managed to give her a crooked, daring, almost-dead smile. "Iris," he started, his voice low and hoarse, "I… didn't know where else to go."
She didn't lower the gun, not even for an inch. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Good night to you, too." Dean tried to laugh at his own joke as he coughed up blood, immediately pressing harder on the wound in his stomach. "Not gonna make me a coffee?"
Her finger relaxed on the trigger. For a moment, she considered pulling. "Dean, if you're here to get me in trouble, I swear I'll make a rug out of your skin. What do you want?"
He had a hard time raising his hands, showing that he wasn't armed, and also making her notice that even if he was, he probably couldn't reach anything. Dean looked at the revolver before looking at himself, hands trembling with weakness. "Fuck, Iris, I was attacked. You're the only one who can help me right now, not because I like you, not because I don't fucking hate you. When I actually decide to finally kill you, I'll make sure not to be almost blacking out on your doorstep."
Iris watched how his knees were barely straight, analyzing every inch: the grayish skin color gave it away, the short breaths, the trembling; he was on the edge of falling. "Out of everybody in this town, why'd you have to think of me? After everything you've done, everything you've said about me? You're so full of yourself." She chuckled in disbelief, still pointing the gun at him.
Dean let out a weak laugh. "Because, whether I like it or not, you're the best hunter out here. And believe me, I don't like it. I've been told how you work. Thousands of times." He inhaled in pain
"I'm not playing, Dean." She grabbed the canteen of holy water in her back pocket and splashed the liquid onto his face. He didn't even flinch.
Not surprised, he wiped his face with his own hands. "Christo. Not possessed."
Iris hesitated. "Come in. Hands where I can see them," she said, without missing the aim, closing the door behind them.
He was limping as he entered the house, trying to support himself on the wall while analyzing the guns that hung there, giving her a half-smile. "Cozy place you've got here," he mentioned.
"Shut the fuck up." She growled, gripping the revolver harder. "Sit down before I change my mind." Iris kneeled by his side as he took his seat on her couch, grabbing the first aid kit from the side table. "What made you think I'd help you?"
He stayed silent for a moment. "Even though we want to slit each other's throats, I don't think you'd let someone die on your doorstep if they didn't deserve it."
Iris nodded in silence. He lifted his shirt just enough for her to work on the wounds. "What was it?" she asked, opening up the antiseptic bottle.
"Wendigo…" He made an ugly face as she cleaned the wound. "That son of a bitch got me in the dark."
"Did you at least get him back?" She pressed the wet cotton against his bruised skin.
"Burned him, but…" He inhaled, grinding his teeth. "He opened me up first."
She analyzed the cuts. They were deep, uneven, dirty. "You'll need stitches. It'll hurt, but I need you to lie down and sit still." She got up to grab a wooden spoon from her kitchen drawer as Dean lay down. "Bite that," she commands, handing him the spoon, which he rapidly positioned the handle between his teeth. Iris sprayed antiseptic on the wound and asked him to breathe deeply.
"Oh, it doesn't hurt that bad," he said in a rough voice.
"Would be weird if it did. I haven't started sewing you up yet."
"What?" Dean interrupted himself with his own stifled scream as he felt the needle piercing his skin.
"Oh, please, it's not that bad. Why don't you man up?" She sewed him with an almost mechanical precision.
"Why don't you kiss my ass?" His voice came out low, almost like a moan due to the spoon handle that creaked amidst his teeth according to the amount of pain he felt.
"You can stop whining now. It's the last one already." Iris' tone was calm, as if it was something she did casually.
"You butcher," he whispered to himself as he got up slowly. "Thanks." Both stayed silent while she stored the materials back in the drawer. "Not that I'm, like, thanking you or anything," he added quickly.
"No, please continue. You're on the edge of being yourself." She laughed at her own joke.
Dean rolled his eyes, trying to hide a chuckle. "You know what? Fuck you, then."
Iris watched him with a confused expression, nodding her head in disapproval. "You weirdo. Where are you staying the night?"
Only now he noticed that he hadn't thought of that; his Impala was parked outside, but he knew he shouldn't drive in this state. "Not your business."
"You can barely stand, you asshole, and now that you're being bratty, you've lost the benefit of taking my painkillers."
He opened his mouth to argue but felt dizzy trying to get up from the couch, swaying slightly.
"Give me the keys." Dean took the keys from his pocket and handed them to her without hesitation, making both of them notice how sick he actually was.
"Wait, what will you do to her?"
They stared at each other without a single expression showing. "You refer to your car as 'her'?"
"She's my baby. What will you do?"
"Park 'her' in my garage. There's an old mattress in there. Deal with it."
He tried protesting but felt tired enough just to follow her slowly and watch her do it. "Didn't think you could change gears."
"Didn't think a rat could talk." She tossed a blister pack of painkillers on the old mattress. "Don't throw up on my floor."
"Oh, so you're not really a bitch," he teased.
Iris cocked the hammer of the revolver that she kept on her waistband in silence.
"Yeah, you're a bitch. Real bitch." He watched her go through the door, just then lying down on the dirty mattress and taking two painkillers at once.