Kanaima

“Are you sure?” Dean asks Sam in the study of their secret underground bunker.

The doctors gave you enough meds to get you through the excruciating pain you will still endure, though they leave you feeling groggy.

Sitting at a table by a desk lamp, you can’t help but gaze around the room and marvel at it all. It was a long drive to get here; you slept most of it, and Dean was purposely vague about its location. Your head is too foggy to care about that anyway. You just want to know you won’t be strung up in the dark by an invisible force again, or have lamps heaved at you from thin air.

“I checked it out myself,” Sam tells him. “Of all the burned bodies they recovered in the morgue, McFarlane’s was not there.”

“Someone stole the body.”

“Looks like it.”

“What are they trying to hide?”

A chill ripples through your core and you shiver.

“We should get her in a room,” Dean says. “She’s pretty doped up and should probably still be lying down.”

“I want to help,” you tell him, trying to look resolute and in control, but their expressions tell you you’ve failed.

“Come on,” Sam says, lifting you from the chair by the arm. “No more talking at least until tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.”

You sigh and catch Dean chuckling off to the side, watching you and Sam with a little gleam in his eye. You remember what he said to you in the hospital when he thought you were sleeping, and look up at Sam.

He senses it and looks down at you. His smile is sincere. You look away, not sure whether you should encourage looks like that from him or not. Dean said some pretty heavy things, and you have no idea what these guys go up against on a daily basis. This is just one case for them.

“How’s your hand?” he asks you as he opens a door and ushers you in. The room is small and humble, but there’s a twin bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a dresser, and a writing desk. It looks like it hasn’t been updated in eons.

You look at your hand; you hadn’t thought about it recently. The marks are still there, and you wonder if they will scar, leaving you with a permanent reminder of these two spellbinding boys.

“I just put fresh sheets and blankets on the bed for you. When you’re feeling better and can move around a little, call me. I’ll come help you get around. We can take that brace off later, as long as the swelling keeps going down.” He punches his number into your phone and saves it into your contacts. Then he leaves it on the nightstand and pulls back the covers.

You know Dean said you would be safe here, but you know nothing about this place. Your eyes are wide as you glance around the room.

With a tender touch, Sam sits you on the side of the bed and crouches to remove your shoes. When you flinch at the pain in your neck triggered by moving to lie down, he cradles you and lies you down on the pillow as carefully as he can. “Thanks,” you whisper. Anything louder than that hurts.

He nods. “You’re welcome. You don’t have to be afraid here. Nothing can find this place. It would have to be invited in, and trust me, whatever this is is definitely not.” He pauses as he gazes at you before snapping out of it like he’d been in a trance. “I’ll be out in the study for another few hours. Try to get some rest.”

You wake to an unfamiliar ceiling in a room with unfamiliar smells. It takes you a moment to remember where you are. Sam had left the lamp on for you, supposing that the dark may be a bit more ominous to you, now. And he is right.

It’s quiet. Your stomach is screaming at you for food, and you now realize you’ve lost all track of your last bite to eat. You reach for your phone and see that it’s a little after ten at night. So you text Sam, in case he’s sleeping, and say, ‘Are you awake?’

It takes a few minutes, but a reply eventually comes through. ‘Yes. You okay?’

‘Starving.’

‘Be right there.’

You feel like you’ve slept so much you can’t sleep anymore, no matter how tired your body still feels. Your eyes just don’t want to close. Stiffening, you roll onto your side with surprisingly less pain than you expected and push yourself up. Dean said you’re strong. You want to be strong. You want to be a fighter.

“Hey,” Sam says as he walks into the room. He helps you up. “Wanna take this off?”

You nod and turn a bit so he can unhitch the latches.

With a few quick clicks, the neck brace falls free. “How’s that?” he asks you, wincing.

You tilt your head to the right, then the left just a bit. You won’t have comfortable range of motion for a while, but it sure feels good to be out of that shell. “How’s it look?” you whisper.

“Bruised. Still pretty bruised. But the swelling’s down, so that’s good. Let’s get you something to eat, and get you some more meds. Dean’s got them in the kitchen.”

The sandwich he makes for you is one of the best things you have ever eaten, even though it takes you over an hour to get it down. And when you finish, your stomach growls again.

Sam looks up at you. “Still hungry?”

You nod.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, as if he’s proud of you.

Sam takes your plate to the kitchen. Dean stares at the white-blue light of the laptop screen in front of him. “What the hell..?” he murmurs. His eyes scan the screen from left to right.

“What?” you rasp.

He shakes his head and quirks an eyebrow. “You’re not going to believe this. People are reporting sightings of a ‘jaguar-man’. I’m not making this up.”

“For real?” Talking hurts. You need to stop doing that.

“Yeah. I know.” He continues reading and you wait for him to tell you more. “It attacked someone on campus. What the-” Dean squints at the screen. “Now that’s weird.”

“What is?” Sam asks as he walks back in. He sets your plate in front of you and takes a seat with his.

“You didn’t make me a sandwich?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugged, picking up his sandwich. “You didn’t ask.”

"I didn’t ask. Thanks, Sammy. Thanks.”

“Dude. What are you looking at?” Sam says, then takes a bite.

“Okay. Listen to this.” Dean licks his lips as the corners of his mouth draw up in a mischievous grin. “’Doctors are baffled by the placement of living herbs inside the victims wounds as if planted there. The patient is hysterical and has been reported screaming that a massive jaguar is after him.’” He laughs silently as he looks for Sam’s response.

“Dean.”

“What? Oh, come on. It’s funny.”

Sam doesn’t even smile. “What else does it say?”

He slides the laptop over to Sam. “Here. You read it. I’m gonna make me a sammich.”

“That’s... that’s where we just came from,” Sam says as Dean disappears to the kitchen.

“Yep!”

Sam looks up at you. “This could be a lead.” He hurries out of the room and returns a few minutes later with an armful of old books, sprawling them out on the table. You pluck a corner of the sandwich off between your fingers and slowly pop it in your mouth, watching him work. He’s already paging through them when Dean brings his double-decker sandwich back to the table.

“Whaddaya got, Sammich?” he smirks.

Sam doesn’t answer at first, but his finger trails a line of text, then the next, and then the next. “Huh,” he says. He looks up. “Ever heard of a Kanaima?”

Dean stops chewing. “No.”

“It says in certain folklore, ‘the Kanaima is actually a shaman who sends a spirit avatar to do his dirty work. They attack in a ritualistic fashion, ensuring their victim dies a slow and painful death. After the initial attack, they stuff the victim with herbs that will begin to break down the body. After three days of unimaginable suffering, the victim dies, and the Kanaima returns to collect what it seeded, however, this results in the destruction of the victim’s immortal soul.’ Yikes.”

“So, we gotta go back.” Dean looks longingly at his plate.

“Yeah, Dean, or this guy’s going to die in three days. Oh, hold on... ‘If the Kanaima cannot complete its ritual, the victim will go mad and die. The victim can only return to normal if the Kanaima is killed.’ Well, there’s that.”

“Great. How do we kill it?” Dean asks, then he sinks his teeth into his masterpiece.

Sam raises his eyebrows at the page and tilts his head. “‘Unknown.’”

With his mouth full of food, Dean grumbles. “Maaannn.”