Silver Hills Industrial District

Abandoned Happy Teeth Toothpaste Offices

11:50

Dante’s chest constricted around the wood and metal of the arrow. His fangs still bared, the twin panted like a rapid dog, saliva dribbled from his slack jaw to the surface of the battered wood table he sat at. One of Dante’s hands was wrapped white-knuckled around a bottle of pure Jack Daniels. The others’ grip was just as tight around the hilt of a dagger with its blade tip buried into the wood of the table. The air rushing over his nostrils and wind pipe was sounding more and more like a laboring race horse.

It was a sure sign of discomfort and pain as the twin vampire, having been dead upwards of two hundred years, didn’t need to breathe at all.

The female vampire, Angelique, placed a firm hand on Dante’s spine and gripped the shaft of the arrow close to his torn clothes and bleeding flesh. Dixon walked around the front of the twin, snapping the head off the shaft and lifting it to his nose, sniffing. The vampire made an ugly face and tossed it aside like it was poisoned.

“Dead man’s blood,” Dixon snarled.

“I could have told you that!” Dante barked in Dixon’s face. Both males bared their teeth and hissed at each other.

“Dante!” Angelique snapped, warning the male for a second before yanking the bolt free from the older vampire’s chest. Dante bit back a growl and after a heart beat of gasping he threw back a deep swallow of the amber alcohol.

“Hunters . . .” Dante croaked. “How are there fucking Hunters here!?” Angelique carefully stripped off the twin’s shirt to his bare chest and started to clean up the quickly healing wound and dried blood.

“Thought they were all busy with the war, demons and getting killed,” the teenage vampire, Peter, snorted from his place on an old couch in the room.

The pack’s den was larger than most vampires kept. The old, brick two-story office was large enough for the vampires to move around without stepping on each other and if the building ever came under suspicion and they didn’t particularly feel like killing a contractor they could easily hide in one of the many forgotten offices, storage or conference rooms. The pack spent most of it’s time in the largest conference room. They moved in plush chairs and couches from the abandoned lounge and lobby, replaced the huge, rotting table with a smaller, wood one from a personal space and hard backed chairs from the cafeteria. To finish off the room Peter’s laptop was sitting on a desk in one corner and a television on the other.

“Evidently not busy enough to give up a chance at loping off Mikey and Porter’s heads,” Dante laughed humorlessly.

He flinched and the other three vampires jerked as a second bottle of alcohol slammed into the corner of the table and shattered, sending glass and amber liquid flying. Dante whirled around, dagger in hand and faced his twin, Dante snarled, baring his teeth and hissing loudly. Dominique didn’t return the snarl but he was the picture of barely controlled insanity and rage.

“Enough,” Dominique growled out.

Dante settled, easing himself back into his chair and turning his eyes away from the dominant brother. The tension in the pack snapped with a crackle of energy as Ransik, Nadira and a few of their robotic lackeys appeared from thin air into the center of the room, almost on top of Dominique. Where the brother had been standing rigid since they returned to the den.

Ransik’s face was twisted into a smug grin. “Couldn’t handle the Rangers, hmm?” he taunted before looking away from Dominique toward the other vampires. His eyes fell on Dixon’s still half-mauled throat and arm, Peter’s fading bruises and the through and through hole in Dante’s chest. And taking in that the pack was missing two vampires all together.

“The Rangers did this?” Nadira gasped quietly and flinched when Dante broke into deep guttural laughter.

The whole room was deadly silent until Dante’s laughter subsided and ended with a drink from the Daniel’s bottle.

“Those little bastards were wrapped up in butcher paper, easier than lambs in a pen,” Dante snickered.

“This was Hunters.”

“Hunters?” Ransik cocked his head in mild confusion.

“Good Hunters,” Angelique growled.

“Better,” Dixon muttered and drew all the attention in the room. “I knew them, scented them before. The two males at least . . . they where the Winchesters. The brothers.”

Every vampire in the room went rigid.

“The Winchesters?” Peter asked and pushed himself up from the couch. “The Winchesters that opened Colt’s Gate to Hell? The Winchesters that practically gutted Luthor’s pack in the Midwest? That killed a couple of Lanore’s pack? That killed half and banished the rest of the seven sin demons? That shut down that yellow eyed demon’s happy hour at White Oak, Wyoming? That are supposed to be dead a few times over and keep dancing around Hell? The Winchesters that killed your fledglings and Gordon Walker with a piece of wire when you turned him, those Winchesters?”

Dixon shot a look at the over dramatic vampire.

“Well, that’s just peachy,” Peter snarled.

“You want good?” Dante snarled, “that female, the redhead. Demon.”

“What?” Peter’s head snapped around, it was like the pack had completely forgotten that Ransik was even in the room. “No, don’t believe it. Hunters don’t pair up with demons.”

“She was a fucking demon!” Dante snapped back.

“I didn’t smell a demon,” Peter growled, treading on dangerous ground speaking against one of his alphas, pack leaders.

Dominique bared his fangs and snarled at his pack, silencing his twin brother and the teenager at the same time. Dominique continued to growl, his throat rattling and teeth bared, turning on Peter and making the smaller man cringe back into the cushions of the couch.

“It was a demon,” Dominique hissed. “An old one and I want it dead.”

“We can take ‘em,” Peter muttered. “Those kids were sheep and we have five to their three.”

“IT’S NOT ENOUGH!” Dominique roared, Peter cringed closer to the cushion of the couch, shivering at Dominique’s rage.

But Ransik just watched, a smile spreading over his scarred, ugly face . . .

--

Silver Garden Park

12:03 PM

"Who the hell are you?"

Celia cocked an eyebrow at the brunette, who met her gaze with an unintimidated glare, then blinked once as her vision flickered suddenly into fuzziness before clearing again. She reached around and felt toward the back of her head, a lump was starting to swell behind her left ear.

Damn . . . must have taken a blow to the head. She blinked and rubbed a hand across her eyes again.

“Red?” Sam’s voice drifted through the hazy vision.

“Yeah . . . my vision . . .” Celia returned, blinking again to clear it and settle her eyes back on the brunette who was practically clinging to the younger brother to stay upright. She lifted a hand to scrub her fist across the drying blood around her nose and cleaning it up. “Look, I don’t fuckin’ care who ya are. Who else is bleedin’?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders when Celia’s eyes turned toward him. The elder Winchester gave himself a quick once over and twisted his arms around and felt around his throat then up toward his temple, his fingers came away from a small slice near his eye slicked with blood.

“Damn. I am,” he growled.

The brunette looked up, an expression of surprise crossing her face at his complete disregard for his own injuries, then she frowned and started to speak softly: "You . . . you were at the market."

“Me too,” Sam spoke, ignoring the girl's quiet voice. He lifted his knuckles outward toward Celia and Dean to show his rubbed raw flesh as blood started to seep up to the surface of his skin. “I think everyone is,” he added, casting his eyes toward the other Rangers still sprawled or trying to get back to their feet.

“Shit,” Celia grumbled, looking between the brothers. “That pack just got a big breath of our scents.”

The brunette’s eyes were casting around toward her fallen friends and they settled sharply on the still form of the blond man against the fountain. “Wes!” she barked and struggled away from Sam to get to him. Sam quickly followed, reaching out to steady her until they were next to the unconscious blond; Sam eased her down to sit on the fountain before crouching next to the kid to check him out.

Celia cast her eyes to Dean before she looked down sharply and started to rub across her eyes again.

“Celia?” Dean asked sharply.

“I got a hit to the head is all,” she muttered, blinking until her vision returned to clarity. “I’ll be all right.”

Nearby the black and tan German Shepherd, Buckshot, barked loudly, drawing attention to the huddled group of kids he was monitoring; a black woman was laying on the ground, surrounded by two men, an Asian guy who looked about twenty and a younger one with his back facing Celia and Dean. Their voices could be heard muttering to each other nervously.

“Want the girl?” Celia motioned toward them.

“Sure.” Dean gave her a final look before stepping over and squatting next to the girl and the two guys.

“Hey guys, calm down,” Dean soothed. “What’s her name?”

“Katie,” the dark-haired male said swiftly and clearly.

“But she won’t wake up,” the green-haired teen pleaded.

Dean’s eyes flew up and he did a double take before snarling several curses. He looked toward the dark- haired man next to him. “Shit, you’re those damn kids from the café. What the hell are you doing out here?! Seven kids get murdered in a park and you guys go for a stroll!? There’s a dead guy looking like a garland on the goddamn park fence! Not warning enough for you?!”

"Listen, buddy . . . we're not just out here for a picnic!" the dark-haired man snapped, beginning to rise even as the younger cringed away from Dean’s harsh words.

The challenge was clear in the younger man's words, and for a second Dean felt heat rush to his face and his blood begin to pump wildly again; but the elder Winchester controlled himself. They were victims. And nobody liked being treated like a child . . . even if the kid did look like he was barely out of High School. He checked Katie’s pulse, the gash in her skin and pulled back her eye lids to look in her pupils.

“Is she all right?” the green-haired teen asked hopefully. He was wringing his hands.

“She’ll live,” Dean said almost too shortly, then sat back and whistled sharply, getting his brother’s attention. “Sam.” He motioned toward the two boys.

“Already know. I got the third one here!” Sam called back, motioning toward Wes as the blond was slowly revived by the brunette’s coaxing. Both brothers looked toward Celia and she shook her head.

“Too much of a coincidence,” she muttered and turned her attention to where the albino, Valentine was sitting next to the man still lying on the ground. The guy’s attention was clearly on the comfort the dog was offering, his gloved hand tangled tightly into the thick white fur, which was streaked pink and red with blood. Valentine’s blue eyes blinked slowly and he let out a soft bark, calling for help. She stepped stiffly over toward the man and her dog, still scrubbing blood away from her nose and willing the swelling to stop. She stood and looked down at him, eyeing the red and black body suit and cocked her head. His chest was heaving and the cracked motorcycle like helmet made it easy to at least see his eyes.

“Dude . . . are ya wearin’ spandex?”

The eyes narrowed in defense and he flinched suddenly when a flash of light and energy and the suit disappeared, replaced by the combat uniform. Celia jumped and looked him up and down for a second before sighing and easing down to squat next to him.

“Figured it was ya, kid, after seeing those other three. Hold still.” She reached for his head and gently settled her hands along his badly bruised throat and jaw line. He jerked at the touch and ground his teeth together, hissing as pain flooded into his neck.

“Stop it,” he croaked out and tried to push himself away, gasping as pain flashed up his ribs and across his stomach. His grip in Valentine’s fur tightened and the dog licked his lips to keep from whining.

“I just want to check yer eyes,” she said back and leaned forward to inspect the small lacerations around his eyes, the bridge of his nose and his cheek bones.

“I said stop! I know the difference between a bump and a concussion . . . I'm fine!” the man snarled and willed up enough strength to push Celia off balance, she fell onto her hip in the bloody grass. She bared her teeth at him and bristled like an animal.

“Boy, ya just need to settle yer pace,” she snapped ill temperedly.

The man went still, she actually heard his teeth grind together and he suddenly let go of Valentine, grabbed her throat and arm. Celia felt herself being thrown over and his weight suddenly straddled her stomach, one hand trapping her wrists, the other squeezing her throat; she went still under him, looking up into his eyes and masking her face with a lack of emotion.

“What did you do to Marine Elijah Greer?” the man growled down at her.

He stilled himself at the sound of guns cocking, then looked up to see Sam aiming steadily with a .45 Taurus dead at his chest. The younger Winchester's eyes were protective and so enraged they were ice cold, his jaw was locked and screaming "threat". The Silver Guardian's head was forced to tilt sideways as the heated metal of a barrel pressed into his temple.

“Get off of her,” Dean warned in a low tone. “Now.”

The man stayed put, straddling and pinning Celia down. His eyes twitched to see Dean but all he could make out was the jeans. “Did you kill him? Kill him for his truck?” he snapped at Celia’s face before Dean’s boot connected with his side and sent him rolling off her and directly into Sam. The younger Winchester quickly settled a boot on his shoulder and aimed the gun down into his face.

Celia took Dean’s help to sit up, then climb to her feet.

The uniformed man glared up at the barrel of the .45 for a split second before shooting his arms up and twisting Sam's arm painfully, simultaneously bringing his legs up and wrapping them around Sam's hips, using his body weight to pull him to the ground and switch their positions. Sam lost his grip on the gun, but Eric couldn't keep his, and it went into the grass, landing a couple feet away; the two men stayed pinned to each other, their bodies poised for each other's next attack.

“It's all right, Sam.” Celia took a step forward, annoyance—but also humor—lighting up her eyes.

Sam pushed the man off him and he went back into the grass, landing on his rear, still shooting a murderous look up at Celia.

“First of all, it’s my truck and second, I would NEVER hurt my brother,” Celia snapped passionately.

The man stared at her for a few seconds, watching her as if trying to decide for himself whether or not she was telling the truth. He started to shove himself up. Sam moved to help him but he jerked away. “I don’t need you’re help,” he spat, getting to his feet and practically stumbling away, hugging his aching ribs and gut.

Sam stepped over to Celia and his brother and leaned toward them.

“We can’t let him walk away, they’ve got his scent, too,” he whispered.

“I know. . . I know . . . little bastard,” Celia muttered, narrowing her eyes at the retreating man’s back.

“He sure was hanging on Valentine.” Dean shrugged his shoulders and started back toward Katie and the other two men. Celia stood for a second before crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

“Damn it,” she snapped. “Valentine, c’mere.”

The albino rushed to sit on his haunches in front of her, he cocked his ears up and bright blue eyes locked on her.

“Ya all right? Feel good?”

Valentine gave a short bark back, thumping his tail on the grass.

“All right . . . goddamnit. Stay with him.” She pointed and Valentine twisted his head to follow the direction and look at the man. “Stay with him,” she pounded in the command.

Valentine barked, lurched up to his paws and galloped off after the man. Celia watched her albino race away to follow orders.

“Friggin’ dog,” she snorted and turned to meet the eyes of the brunette. She and Sam were helping to keep the blond man, apparently named Wes, on his feet while he oriented himself.

“I knew you weren’t FBI,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at Celia and turning the glare toward Sam and Dean, too. Then returned her eyes to Celia. “Especially you. What are you . . . Celia.”

The brunette practically snapped her name. Celia bristled, immediately on the defensive. “Hey listen, Butch. Ya don’t get to call me that!” the redhead barked back, baring her teeth.

"You can scream and growl all you want," the brunette argued, shoving herself away from Wes and Sam and sticking her face inches from Celia's, "but that's not going to scare me any. Who the hell are you people, and what are you doing in our city!?"

"Yer city," Celia snorted, "hell of a job yer doin’ takin’ care of it . . . eight dead bodies. Yer just a bunch of amateurs who are in way over their heads." She took a deep breath, seething inwardly but speaking calmly. "Now . . . before someone else gets hurt, or worse . . . y'all pups need to step back an' leave this to the wolves."

"Fuck you," the brunette spat.

"Jen—" Wes started.

"Stay out of it, Wes!" Jen held up her left hand to silence her friend, a diamond ring on her finger sparkling in the sunlight.

"Better listen to yer boyfriend, Butch," Celia said, red eyes flicking to the ring.

The words seemed to strike a nerve in the younger woman. She stiffened, her eyes hardening and her face growing pale; Celia felt the urge to step back when Jen took one forward, but held her ground glared at the young woman, who spoke, her voice shaking with emotion: "You don't get to come here, and act like you're in charge, okay? I'm on a mission, and I don't have time for your attitude."

"Missions get people killed and I don't have time for self righteous—" Celia said.

"Hey, hey!" Sam cut in, stepping in and breaking the two women apart. "Let's start acting like mature adults here instead of biting each other's heads off . . . you're both acting like fifth graders. For God's sake, we don't even know each other's names!"

Celia and Jen backed off each other, while the green-haired boy and the older Asian-looking man came to stand on either side of Wes, the teenager speaking first: "Maybe . . . we could help each other." His wide eyes flitted back-and-forth, from Celia to Dean and then finally to Sam, who offered a tiny smile in return, then nodded his agreement.

"We could always use some extra hands," Wes said, his voice weak. He leaned heavily on the tall, black-haired man.

"But we couldn't use people who don't have a clue what they're doing," Dean said, finally speaking up. "You guys are beat to hell . . . if you try to help us, you'll just get hurt more. Maybe get one of us hurt—" he glanced at Sam "—or worse."

"We can handle ourselves just fine," the man who was supporting Wes snapped. "Once we know what we're dealing with."

"It's gonna take more than pretty costumes an' plastic guns to take these things down," Celia said, her voice condescending. Sensing Jen was the leader of the group, she focused her attention on the young brunette, trying to gauge her, figure out whether or not she really could be helpful . . . the little mini-skirt and snug-fitting hot pink shirt weren't exactly convincing, nor the red lipstick and knee-high, black boots. But there was something about her.

Dean watched Celia, noting how she appeared to warm up to Jen just a little bit, and then he knew the answer to the teenager's proposal; he extended his hand to Jen. "Dean Winchester."

Jen took his hand, shaking it. "Jen Scotts," she said, "this is my team . . . Wes Collins. Lucas Kendall—" the tall, dark-haired man nodded stiffly. "Trip Regis—" the green-haired boy smiled brightly. "And Katie Walker." The black woman was now standing on her own, unsteady, but seemingly in no danger of falling over at any time soon.

"I'm Sam. Dean's brother." Sam nodded to each person. Then reached down and petted the black and tan German Shepherd’s neck. “And this is Buckshot.” The dog whined quietly and pinned his ears back once.

Celia hesitated for a moment longer, but then reached out with her own scarred and calloused hand, faintly surprised when Jen gripped it firmly, the younger woman's rough skin matching her own. "Red.”

“Red? That’s it?” Jen grumbled back.

“Her name’s Celia Northwind," Dean supplied and only threw a grin back as Celia’s flashed red eyes.

“It’s Red,” Celia growled, " . . . we're Hunters. An' those guys?" She glanced back at Dean and Sam, who both smirked. "Those were vampires."

"Vampires?" Wes said, incredulously.

"Yeah, yeah . . . hard to believe. I know," Dean replied. “Not so funny anymore . . ."

“And what about you?" Jen demanded to Celia, suspicion still clouding her eyes.

Celia instantly bristled at the girl's tone, but restrained herself. Not like it was a normal thing to see a chick with blood red hair and eyes, after all . . . still, she didn't feel the need to explain herself to a complete stranger. "Long story," she supplied, making it clear the story was ending right then and there.

"We'll get our facts straight," Jen said, "after we get everyone taken care of . . ." She looked at Celia: "Follow us? We live at the old clock tower—"

"By the Silver Ring Inn?" Sam interrupted, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"Don't see any other clock towers around," Jen answered, fatigue and pain bringing a sharp rudeness to her tongue. "Anyway, that's our 'home', I guess . . . you wanna come with us, you can fill us in on all the details while we patch each other up."

"All right," Celia said, reaching up to adjust the bandanna tied around her head. When she didn’t speak Dean elbowed her sharply in the side. She choked on a growl and grudgingly spoke again. "Ya’ll need a ride?"

"We'll be fine," Jen assured her, turning around with the rest of her team and beginning the walk back to their tower. Katie and Trip helped each other along, while Jen looped an arm around Wes' back, just under his shoulders, though he seemed to be recovering and didn't need much help; they could all just barely be heard muttering to one another, playfully, Jen's voice rising above the rest in a somber tone. Still . . .

Just a bunch of kids, the thought once again crossed Celia's mind. Celia and Dean cocked eyebrows at each other then the redhead snorted and reached into her pocket to slide out a squashed pack of cigarettes and slipped one out between her teeth. “I’m havin’ trouble swallowin’ that . . .” she muttered and sniffed loud.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” Dean muttered, throwing a look over at the two decapitated vampires and nodded towards them. Celia returned the nod as she slipped out a small book of matches and struck two. “I don’t have any gas.”

“Yeah well, that ain’t happenin’ anytime soon. And leech blood is practically an oil slick because of all that fermentation anyway . . .” She puffed and held the still burning matches for a second then tossed them onto the nearest corpse. It hissed and crackled before the smell of burning flesh quickly caught. They stepped away as the blood on the grass started to catch fire, in a few minutes half the park would be ablaze. Jen looked over her shoulder, eyes widening when she saw the burning corpses and Celia and Dean standing still, watching. Disposing of the unexplainable evidence.

“Let’s move a little faster guys,” Sam encouraged the others to pick up into a stiff jog when he smelled the fire. Buckshot broke into a quick lope, bounding a head of the humans toward the park fence.

"Hey!" Dean called, stopping in midstride on his way back to the Impala.

Jen waved on the others but turned and looked at Dean expectantly, then uttered an exasperated-sounding "What?" as she waited.

"You said you're a 'team'," Dean went on, "uh . . . what exactly does that mean? You some kind of top-secret, Special Ops unit?"

"Y'all look like a bunch of high-schoolers," Celia spoke up and nudged Dean back into motion at the heat creeping on their backs.

"And you look like something out of Stephen King novel," Jen bit back, crossing her arms. "You won't believe me," she said to Dean.

He held out his hands. "Hey . . . I just told you vampires exist," he laughed, "can it get any crazier than that?" Celia scoffed at him, knowing damn well it could, and probably would. Vampires were nothing compared to gates leading to Hell . . . or demons.

But nothing could prepare them for the words that came from Jen next.

"We're from the year three-thousand," she said, smiling as the trio's eyes widened in disbelief and shock, "part of a police organization called Time Force. We came here on a mission to stop a mutant, Ransik, from destroying the city . . ." she paused, her smile widening a little. "Oh yeah, and we're Power Rangers."

--