Now What? // Torrid //

Since awakening on the concrete outside some shady motel to find he'd been skipped out on, he decided that he'd pursue his interests without the Winchesters' help. Sam was okay in Torrid's book, but Dean had a bug up his ass about him and there's really nothing Torrid can do on that front. He knew somewhere deep inside him that clinging to his past is just a fruitless effort. The Winchesters seemed to be the only people who had the tenacity to accomplish anything, but maybe what he wanted just wasn't in the cards. So he took a page out of the Winchester playbook, shoved it all down, and allowed himself to be numb enough to pretend to enjoy his life.

He still mingled with hunters, and it seems that a little rumor about Robert had broken out, leaving his spectral dog theories discredited thanks to an "unknown source." Torrid maintained good standing with Garth, who's actually a good guy when you give him a decent chance. And it helps that his chatter  gives am idea of this planet's shelf life.

He tried again to read through the supernatural books, but found that his second-grade reading comprehension still left a lot of holes.This happened on a tiny island in Belize he bought with the currency he had from home. It kept him busy for all of a week before he had a panic attack about being alone again. So he rented it out, went back to the states, and discovered cocaine, which, turns out, has awful side effects. Wish someone told him that. Back to booze, like a productive member of society. He got arrested a few times. It was actually kind of fun pulling a Houdini act out of those. The homeless life, ironically, reminded him of home, and he got in the habit of just going wherever he felt like it. He traveled the better part of five continents. For a short stint of the trip, he had a passionate latina lover. When he wanted to leave, he'd stow away on a plane.

His last one landed in the United States. This world is, admittedly, very beautiful and diverse. But its not his. He pulled the same kind of adventurous stunts, but it all still felt so empty. At the end of the day, he was still alone. All he needs to know is what afterlife the residents of his home went to, and he could off himself and join them. Easy as that. But you'd be amazed at how difficult it is to study a subject that not only has no lore, but to study when you're looking up every other word (and that's just one language).

Honestly, he had no where else to turn. After a few days, he tracked their scents down to Whitefish, Montana. But now that he's here, he has no idea what to say. Hey, can you help me track dead people? And then help me kill myself to go there? He doubts that would work.

So that leaves one big question: Now what?

A young woman was trying on an outfit in her bedroom. There was JoJo singing about being Supergirl softly from her stereo so she wouldn't disturb her parents. Turning side to side, she admired her reflection, flipping her brown hair, blowing kisses and practicing her acceptance wave. She just knew that she would win Associated Students President at her community college since she smiled for the cameras at that stupid dog charity event. Annoying little yaps, but if it kicked her competitors aside, she'd take it. As she stared more closely at her reflection, she noticed something. 

A dog. Big, like a husky.

"Eww! You're getting hair everywhere, dog!" She hissed at it, and it only cocked it's head and whined back harmlessly. "Mom, this is the weirdest gift ev--" She cut off as the dog suddenly, irrationally snarled at her. "What--" it advanced, ears flattened, tail up. 

Her screams were heard around the block, until they weren't. The husky was gone, but there was a female wolfdog, examining her own paws, and then the mangled body on the floor.

Her own.

---

Torrid groaned and rolled on his back. Oh shit, where was he? It was dark in this room, but his eyes immediately adjusted. There was a woman sleeping nude next to him, looking disturbed for all of five seconds while he shifted. He was covered in glitter and whipped cream, which he hardly bothered to scrape off. He rolled out of bed and stole his sword from the bedside table. He used the smooth scabbard to scratch his head, only to realize it was sticky. Welp, there's that.

Still nude, he fished around for some spiced rum to get his engine started. The woman moaned quietly, looking for the missing heat. Black hair was all over the pillow. He glanced at a picture on the wall, the woman's bright blue eyes smiling at him. He almost smiled back, mistaking them for someone else's. What was this woman's name? Carrie? Casey? Something like that. Doesn't really matter.

He quickly dressed and made himself scarce. The sirens were louder. Whatever had happened, happened recently and it must be really bad. Even after he picked up breakfast (a bagel, you morbid son of a bitch), they were still going. With nothing better to do, he went to check it out. He arrived on the scene just as they were hauling a writhing dog out of the house on one of those twisty catchpoles they use on ASPCA. It was barking and whining in earnest, and as they loaded her into the truck, Torrid could have sworn she said she didn't do it. A mother was crying, shouting to put that horrible animal down. Apparently, the animal attack from just a few days before was being pinned on this same canine.

During this line of questioning, Ashley's father remained stoic and sturdy for his wife. The lack of action indicated he was valiantly fighting off crying himself. Maybe if he sat perfectly still, tears will never fall because he knows Ashley wouldn't want him to cry. But his expression did change during the questioning, and he looked like he was refraining from saying something for her sake. Finally, Ashley's mother excused herself to cry with a little privacy in the kitchen and the father of the deceased was left alone with the agents. 

"Agents?" The father swallowed, his voice hoarse with emotion. He cleared his throat. "I... Didn't want to contradict my wife but-- don't want her thinking it's still--" he swallowed and tried again for a coherent thought. "I saw the dog at the Johnson's house. I-i know it was night time, but I just know it wasn't what killed our daughter." He exhaled a shaky breath, resting his elbows on his knees. "It was much, much bigger. Black, I think, with red eyes. I saw it running away after I found her. He-- it-- blood, all over." He struggled for words, but the hand gesture signaled red around the neck. 

The man nodded somberly. That is exactly what he is saying. "Please... Just put the damn thing down." Ashley's father said. He got to his feet to show the agents to the door. He had a wife to console and this conversation was over.

Just outside the house, Ashley hid in the shrubbery and stared longingly at the door. Her parents thought she was dead, and she couldn't do anything to let them know she was okay. She couldn't even hold a pen and write it out. So when those agents were ushered out of her home, a desperation welled in her for just one person to understand what she was saying. She whistled weakly, approaching the men with big eyes and tucked tail. "Please help me!" She barked, but no English came out. The only thing the same as her human body was the fur was the same auburn color. "Please, no one will listen!" She gently reached to bite Dean's hand, not to hurt him but to hold it.

---

He probably should call the Winchesters on this. But, still, he couldn't be a hundred percent on whether this actually was an animal attack. He made a visit to the pound and got in on pretext of looking for a pet, but snuck in to interview the dog on death row. She looked miserable, head resting on her paws, ears flat. She only stared up when Torrid approached. "Hey," be said gently. She huffed, not even bothering to try. "Is your name Anna Johnson?" The dog in the kennel immediately perked up.

The wolfdog actually recoiled from Dean as he yanked his hand away, afraid her fangs had cut him. But she couldn't smell blood, which is freaky that she knows that. What she did notice, oddly, is that something in Dean's pocket gave her the creeps. Her last glimmer of hope hit when Sam crouched down in front of her, and she really tried to enunciate her words, "Oh, good, you understand. No one got locked up twice." She leaned into his touch, starved for contact since she'd lost her human body. She hates dogs, but now she has a different appreciation for their struggle. 

All at once, she realized Sam didn't actually understand her and he was pulling away. "No, wait!" But they were gone. 

---

Yep, this is definitely a Winchester sort of thing. His chat with Anna was weird, and not because he was talking to a dog. Even if she was lying, which would be amazing, there was no blood on her fur and he'd be willing to bet that the forensics on her teeth impressions wouldn't match the ones on the body. He assisted in her escape and told her to make herself scarce until all of this was worked out. 

Torrid was just leaving the pound to call the brothers when he realized his phone was gone. He patted down his person, and found it missing despite not having used it since his fling from the night before. Could he have left... Aw crap.

Little did he know, it wasn't at whats-her-face's. It was stored in the glovebox of the impala, somewhere he'd never been. But the dark fur clinging every so often to the interior might suggest otherwise. The strands of red hair would put the nail in the coffin.

Suddenly, the glove box starts singing Shaggy's "It Wasn't Me." Probably neither Sam's nor Dean's ringtone, let's be honest. It wasn't Roberts ringtone either, but that was Robert's phone. Well, it was at one point, though he was never caught on the counter (it wasn't him), banging on the sofa (it wasn't him), nor in the shower. That's definitely Torrid's. 

The number calling was unknown.

---

Torrid went back to what's her face's place, and knocked on the door. To his surprise, it was already open and he stepped inside. "Hello?" He called, but received no answer. "Hey, uh, I know this is weird but I think I left my..." He'd circled the apartment, finding it empty. He was just about to leave when something caught his attention. It was a blue bandana. Normally, he wouldn't think much of it, but it just seemed so familiar. Just like the one that Dean used to patch up a few minor wounds in the Leviathan zoo. Eyeing it closely, there was blood. One sniff and he knew.

Dean had been here.

"Uh-- hello?" The voice on the other end definitely was not Torrid's. The woman's voice took on a playful, silky undercurrent. "Torrid? It's Kailie from last night. Wow, I thought we'd ended on a high note. But, um... Well, if you haven't gotten on your plane to Costa Rica yet, I'd love to..." She trailed off, as if something occurred to her. "I really hope I don't have the wrong number."