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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: When Sam goes missing for a week, they have to clean up after his mess and figure out what really happened.

Warnings: Pov changes, cannon violence, depiction of injuries, possibly incorrect Latin and translations

Word Count: 11.2k

Born Under a Bad Sign

(Masterlist, Prev. Ch, Outfit)

You sleep with your limbs tangled, his leg sandwiched between yours, his thigh pressed against you. His arm is a comfortable weight around you, secure and heavy. Your head is tucked into his chest, his head resting over yours, where you can feel his breath blowing onto your hair.

He grumbles something, chest rumbling with the noise, effectively pulling you from that place between sleep and wakefulness, though you remain sleepy with comfort and warmth.

His eyes peek open, briefly taking in your soft body against his and your eyes that are still closed. You’re so goddamn pretty it hurts, it makes his chest ache. He still can’t believe you’re his—that you want to be with him. But then he wakes up with you in his arms every morning, and he can’t begin to care what made him so lucky; he’s just glad that he is.

Dean kisses the top of your head, his green eyes shifting to the bed a couple of feet away.

“Where’d Sam go?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Maybe he went to get breakfast because he was feeling kind,” you mumble. You’ve been asleep this whole time, so it’s not like you’d know for sure.

He hums in thought, letting his eyes close and his nose bury into your hair, his breath steady. But something makes his stomach twist and sink. So, his eyes open, once again taking in the bed across the way. It’s neatly made, which really means nothing other than that Sam is awake somewhere.

Despite his body wanting nothing more than to remain tangled with yours, his mind itches to know if he’s right or just paranoid. So, he untangles himself from you, mumbling a “sorry, baby.”

The carpet is worn and rough beneath his feet as he shuffles his way to Sam’s side of the room. His duffel bag is gone, too. His heart falls into his stomach, panic filling him immediately when he begins to check through the dresser drawers and the small bathroom to see if he missed a note or if he had put his bag somewhere else. But there’s nothing. He runs his hands through his already messy hair, his chest rising and falling quickly.

You’re on your feet and in front of him in seconds, sleepiness wiped away by worry. You cup his face as if it’s second nature, and by now it is. Regardless, it makes his brain momentarily pause its rapid spewing of possibilities. You’re holding him together. And though no real words have been said, you know exactly what’s going on.

“We’ll find him,” you tell him, words sure and stern. “I promise.”

It was about 3 am when he walked out of our motel room and stole another vehicle in the parking lot, a car that we easily got the license plate of (and the information in general) from one really shitty security camera.

Call after call went unanswered by him, which was odd because this didn’t feel like before when he was mad at Dean. Regardless, calls were made out to Bobby and Ellen as a heads-up.

We tracked the car across state lines, where it was replaced by another car he stole. And all that was just a day and a half.

Every hour, I checked if I could locate him through a spell and a reflection, but each time I came up empty. It's like Ava. Except with her, I couldn’t be certain if she was alive or not, while with Sam, I know he is because we’ve seen various security footage of him (which was later deleted). So, I don’t know why I can’t. Maybe he found a spell or charm to block me out? That’s my only guess. Either way, it doesn’t help morale or lessen stress levels.

Another day goes by, tracking him across state lines, always too far to catch up. And then another and another until hours and roads blur into one big mess of the same thing.

I made calls too. One to Adeline and the other to my brother, in case he shows up. I doubt it, but then again, I don’t know where he’s headed or why. Why the hell did he leave?

The crisp, cool air bites at my fingers, a Sharpie clenched in my hand as I lean over a map, carefully marking each stop Sam made in hopes it could reveal a pattern. My stomach twists because maps and directions were Sam’s thing, not mine, but he’s not here to balance the paper against the Impala while Dean makes a call. I wonder if he would see a pattern in his own disappearance because I can’t; all I see is an imperfect line going from Texas straight up North. I don’t know whats in that direction that he could want.

“Ellen, it’s me again,” Dean's voice cuts in, his fingers tapping a beat onto the roof of the car. “Any chance you’ve heard from him?”

I glance up from my map, watching his jaw clench and unclench in the silence that follows his question.

“I swear, it’s like looking for my dad all over again,” he mutters. “I’m losing my mind here.”

He thumps two more beats onto the roof when his eyebrows furrow. “Hang on,” he says, pulling the phone away from his ear to glance at the screen.

His eyes widen, his spine straightening like the string of a bow.

“Sammy? Where the hell are you? Are you okay?” he rushes out. “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down. Where are you? Alright, don’t move, I’m on my way.”

********

The Impala swerves into the parking lot of the motel, the suspension rocking as it comes to a halt.

Boots hit the pavement in quick thumps, knuckles rapidly cracking against the door of room 106. The door creeps open, a spaced-out Sam standing there between the crack. His shirt is drenched in blood, his knuckles bruised and bloody too. What the hell happened here?

********

Terror washes away to subdued fear because it was not Sam who was injured and bleeding, but rather someone else.

He may have killed someone. Of course, we don’t really believe that possibility, not when the other logical point is that he could’ve been near someone who died and attempted to help. The point is, we have a lot more questions than answers, and we’re all a little freaked, especially because he can’t remember anything.

“Hey, Michaela,” I greet, my phone pressed to my ear.

“Girl, hey!” she answers. “Long time no see. What have you been up to? How’s life treatin’ you? Any good boyfriends to talk about, or girlfriends?”

I laugh, her onset of questions throwing me off from the seriousness I was hoping to bring to the conversation.

“Calm down there,” I smile. “I, uh, I’ll have to unfortunately catch up later. I’m calling to cash in a favor. I’m…investigating this case I stumbled upon and need a blood sample tested.”

“Why won’t the cops do it?” she asks, seeing through me.

“Well…it’s on the down low. The cops don’t see a case here, but I do, so I’m trying to investigate it myself,” I lie.

“The things you get into,” she mutters, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling through the phone. Her nails clack loudly against thick buttons I can only imagine are computer keys. “Where are you?”

“Marshall, Minnesota,” I answer, fiddling with the hem of my shirt.

“Bitch, what the hell are you doing in Minnesota?” she exclaims. “Long way from home.”

“I told you, following a case,” I excuse. “Now, are you able to help me, please, or…?”

More clacking fills the phone line between us. “Yeah, I know of someone there who can do it for you. I’ll text you the address.”

“Thank you so much, seriously,” I gush. “Just make sure they know it has to stay between us. Please and thank you again!”

“Anything for you,” she answers. “But you'd better give me a life update when you’re done with your mysterious case.”

“I will! Alright, bye-bye,” I say before snapping my phone shut. I pocket my phone, glancing around the well-kept motel room. The possible murder sure as hell didn’t happen here.

Then, Sam shuffles out of the bathroom in fresh clothes, damp hair, and a small garbage bag in hand. He frowns, eyes downturned to the carpet as he hands the bag of his bloody clothes over.

I take it, catching his eyes before he glances away. He looks a little better now; he has more color in his face, and he looks like he’s present in his mind.

“You think you can trust Michaela?” he asks, rubbing the side of his neck. He must have heard our conversation while he was in the bathroom.

“Yeah, of course,” I nod. “She’s an old college friend, and she’s always been very loyal, so…plus she owed me for helping get back at her ex.”

I wouldn’t have called her if I was unsure if she was trustworthy, I’m not stupid. But I get his worry, which is why I asked him if he even wanted me to figure out who the blood on his clothes belonged to or if I should just get rid of it. I would’ve gotten rid of the evidence if he asked me to, no questions asked.

“When Dean gets back, I’ll go to wherever the hell she sends me and then we’ll find out who it was and realize this was some big misunderstanding,” I continue as if saying it’s a mistake out loud will make it true. It has to be true; nothing else makes sense.

The front door swings open, Dean sauntering through with a grocery bag in hand.

“What’d you find out?” Sam asks solemnly.

“You checked in two days ago under the name Richard Sambora,” he reveals, placing the plastic bag on the table. “Of course, I think the scariest part about this whole thing is the fact that you’re a Bon Jovi fan.”

“Dean,” Sam mutters flatly.

“Your room's been quiet, nobody’s noticed anything unusual,” he says.

“That’s good,” I nod quickly.

“You mean no one saw me walking around covered in blood?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“I mean, it’s a motel, no one really notices anyone,” I reason. Frankly, it works better for us this way.

“I mean, how the hell did I get here?” Sam exclaims. “What happened to me?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “But you’re okay, and that’s what matters. Everything else we can deal with.”

“Oh, really?” Sam mocks, voice rising. “Cause what if I hurt someone? Or worse?”

“Sam…” Dean mutters quietly.

“What if this is what Dad warned you about?”

“Hey, whoa, whoa, come on, man, let's not jump the gun here,” Dean says, hands raised in surrender. “We don’t know what happened. We’ve just got to treat this like any other job. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sam sighs as he sits on the edge of the motel bed, the old springs creaking. “Just me, you, and Y/N in that motel room in West Texas, going out to grab some burgers, and…”

“West Texas?” Dean echoes. “That was over a week ago.”

He nods with a tight-lipped frown.

“Do you not remember coming back from the place?” I ask, my phone buzzing in my pocket. “Cause you didn’t leave till the middle of the night when we were sleeping.”

“That’s it,” he shrugs. “Next thing I knew, I was sitting here. Bloody. ‘Felt like I’d been asleep for a month.”

Huh.

“Alright, I think I shouldn’t waste any more time on this,” I start, gesturing towards the bag with his bloody shirt. “Maybe you guys should stick around here, see if there’s anything else or if you can jog your memory.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Dean volunteers.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll get car service or something, you’ll need the Impala,” I insist, shaking my head.

But Dean scoffs, his lips pulled into a slight snarl. “Sweetheart, you aren’t taking car service,” he says bluntly, the two words sounding like they could be their own curse words. “If you won’t let me drive you, at least take Baby.”

He pulls out the keys from his pocket, the ring hooked on the end of his finger like a beckoning. He looks at me expectantly, his eyebrow quirked and all. I blink a couple of times, unsure if he’s being serious or not. Sure, I’ve driven the Impala a couple of times, but he was usually in the car too. I don’t think I’ve ever driven it alone, now that I think about it.

“Are you sure you won’t need the car? I’ll probably be gone for a hot minute,” I try to reason.

“Take the car, baby,” he orders, leaving no further room for questions or worry.

“Okay,” I mumble. Our eyes meet, and our fingers brush as I take the keys from him.

A man with short, reddish hair greets me by the door with an outstretched hand covered by blue latex.

“You must be Y/N,” he says. “I’m Brendon Pendrell.”

I accept his handshake with a kind, albeit awkward, smile. “Nice to meet you, thank you for helping,” I answer.

“A friend of Michaela is a friend of mine,” he smiles, showing off his perfectly straight teeth. “Let’s see what you have, huh?”

I hand over the garbage bag, all the while trying to read his expression on this whole thing. He doesn’t seem to really care about the unusual circumstances, though I suppose being a forensic scientist means you see unusual things all the time.

He unties the knot on the black bag, lips flattening into a straight line, and eyes widening just so. “Wow, what happened here?” he remarks.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I say, knowing it’s probably one of the few truths I’ll say to him.

He puts the bag on the nearest table to dispose of his gloves and replace them with new ones. The laboratory is, luckily, empty besides us, but it’s well occupied with microscopes, tables, cabinets, and other equipment. He empties the bag onto the black tabletop, adjusting the shirt to lie flat, the blood a stark contrast to the rest of the room.

“You know, she told me a lot about you and yet nothing at all,” he says, making conversation as he fiddles around.

“I have to say, you’re not really what I expected based on what she said,” he continues, stopping his investigation to look over at me, his eyes giving me a once-over.

I guess that means I don’t give off professional vibes, or that of an investigator. I hadn’t changed into my professional clothing, staying in my jeans, top, and cardigan. I cross my arms against my chest, my lips pursed in a tight-lipped smile while I think of an answer.

“I’ve never been conventional in anything, I suppose,” I reply, moving to occupy one of the empty stools while he works.

“Well, Ms. Unconventional, I’ll have to remind you that I might not be able to figure out who this blood belongs to unless they’re already in the system,” he informs me.

I already knew that, of course, but I figure if Sam were to kill someone or be around someone who died, there’s a chance they may have a criminal record of sorts. The assumption I’m sticking with is that if he did kill someone, it is likely to be a creature of sorts. Maybe he was hunting and just didn’t remember for whatever reason. Memory is a weird thing.

“I know,” I tell him with a little nod. “Thank you anyway.”

********

A light drizzle sprinkles down from the clouds, wetting the ground and making dew drops cling to the exterior of the Impala.

“Hi, baby, I’m on my way back,” I say, phone pressed between my ear and shoulder, a file tucked beneath my arm as I unlock the car.

“‘S that mean you got good news or bad news?” he answers, his voice a soothing rumble in my ear.

“Well, do you or Sam know a Steve Wandell?” I ask, settling into the driver's seat, closing the door, and flipping my manila folder open.

The line goes quiet for a moment, some mumbling going on in the background, which I imagine is Dean asking Sam if the name is familiar or not.

“Nah, sweetheart, ‘don’t know him,” he answers.

“He had some trespassing charges and some assaulting ones from bar fights, but it all got dropped,” I tell him. “And I got an address for us to go check out, see if he’s alive…or not.”

“Well, we found a car Sam might’ve stolen,” he fills me in. “It’s one of those beetle cars you like. The steering wheel had blood on it, found a bloody knife in the backseat, and there was an empty carton of cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes?” I echo. Sam didn’t smoke, ever. I’m not even sure if he’s ever tried a cigarette.

“Yup.”

“That’s…”

“Odd?”

“Yeah.”

“This whole thing is odd.”

Leaves crunch beneath the rolling tires of the Impala. Dean is back in the driver's seat, navigating us down a back road surrounded by trees with multiple warnings about it being private property. Up the road is a large house with huge lights and cameras set up in the trees and surrounding the house.

“Guess this guy didn’t like surprises,” Sam remarks as we get out of the car.

Cautiously, we walk up to the door, which looks undisturbed.

“Should we knock? Dean asks.

“I mean, he’s probably dead, so you don’t have to,” I answer with a shrug.

“I’m gonna knock,” he decides anyway, raising his knuckles to rap against the door.

“Hey,” Sam calls over from the end of the porch. We follow him around the corner to a busted window. He waves his flashlight around the shattered glass lying on the ledge and all on the inside of the house.

“I’m surprised the cops didn’t show. ‘Place like this, you’d think it’d have an alarm,” Dean remarks.

“Yeah, you would,” Sam answers, casting his flashlight along the inside of the house to a small white rectangle on the wall with broken wires sticking out of it.

“I guess we should just follow the clues,” I suggest, gesturing towards the entry point.

“After you,” Sam replies, gesturing towards the window.

“Alright, then,” I mumble, glancing at him from the side of my eye. I pull my sleeves down over my hands before holding onto the sides of the window frame, carefully crawling in without getting glass into my skin. Still, glass crunches beneath my shoes, the floor covered in it and scattered items.

The Winchesters climb in after me, flashlights rolling over the walls and the mess on the floor. This must’ve been where the struggle initially took place, but it did not end here. Carefully, we make our way towards the room in the back, the door slightly ajar.

In the center of the room, in a pool of dried blood on the white carpet, is a dead body lying face down. The air is taken out of the room, truth lying in front of us.

“Hit the lights,” Dean orders, getting closer to the body. Sam does as said, the light above exposing what we already know. Dean kneels beside the body, flipping the guy over.

Steve Wandell is a middle-aged guy with short, dark hair and a deep slash across his neck. His eyes are open, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Even in death, he looks scared. “Dean, I did this,” Sam gapes, his eyes wide and his breathing quick.

“We don’t know that,” Dean counters stubbornly.

“What else do you need?” he exclaims. “I mean, how else do you explain the car, the knife, the blood—”

“I don’t know, man, why don’t you tell me?!” Dean snaps. “Look, even if you did do this. I’m sure you had a reason. You know, self-defense, uh, he was a bad son of a bitch, something!”

Maybe this guy was evil and deserved it in some way, but this was likely not self-defense. Based on the amount of blood that was on Sam’s clothes and hands, the position of the body, the clean cut, and the wide arc of blood spatter along the wall, I can’t imagine this was anything like self-defense. I don’t want to believe I’m right, though, because what if this guy was innocent? What then? Why can’t Sam remember? Why would Sam just kill someone? He isn’t like that.

“I need your lockpick,” Sam announces, suddenly.

“What?”

“I need your lockpick,” he repeats again without explanation. Still, Dean pulls the small case from the inside of his jacket pocket, handing it over.

Sam moves to the double-door closet, easily unlocking it. He pulls the doors open in a large sweep, revealing a wall covered in firearms and the others covered with maps, news clippings, and obituaries.

“Holy crap, either this guy’s a Unabomber—”

“Or a hunter,” Sam finishes for him. “Dean, I think I killed a hunter.” “Well, maybe Gordon told this guy about you and—and so when you ran into him, or he ran into you, you know, he…had to go,” I ramble, scrambling for an explanation that can make sense. Scrambling for anything that isn’t the truth.

“Look,” Dean says, pointing towards a camera in the corner of the room. “Let’s find out if he did do it.”

Sam moves to the desktop on the other side of the room, settling into the chair and clacking away. I know what to expect, but I don’t want to because it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t take him long to find the footage; the video pulls up on the screen while we crowd around it.

In the video, Sam fights Steve, punches are thrown, and arms swing until they shuffle off frame for a moment. Then Steve is dragged back in by the collar of his shirt, stomach dragging along the carpet. Sam kneels in front of him, getting up in his face mere seconds before he slides the knife straight across his throat. He lets go of his hold on Steve, letting his head thump against the floor.

“Oh God,” I mumble, eyes wide.

A loud clack goes through the silent room as Dean pauses the footage, exiting out of it quickly. “How do we delete this?” he asks. “We need to clean up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I nod, my mind catching up to itself. No one can know Sam was here.

I move out of the room, going to the kitchen to grab a dish towel. Immediately, I start wiping down the handles of the closet door, closing them after me so that it’s how we found it.

Dean keeps clicking away at the computer, his jaw tight and eyes focused.

“Sam, come on, I need help,” he says. But Sam is slumped in the office chair, almost frozen there as he stares down at some paper in his hand.

“I killed him. I just broke in and killed him,” Sam says blankly, sounding a million miles away.

“Listen to me, this guy's a hunter, which means that other hunters are going to come looking for his killer, which means we’ve got to cover our tracks, okay?” Dean reasons, always thinking steps ahead.

“This is a letter from his daughter,” Sam replies, briefly holding the paper up.

“Lots of people have daughters,” I say absentmindedly, frantically wiping down the light switch and the desk quickly. What the hell am I saying?

Dean kneels, ripping the computer of its wires and smashing the large rectangular box against the floor, plastic pieces scattering every which way with each hit and crash. He lifts the broken thing above his head and throws it down with all his might as one final measure.

“Wipe your prints, then we go,” he orders.

********

The door of the motel room shuts with a thud, the walls seeming to shake with it, though the tension that’s been following us might’ve already been doing that.

“Alright, we get a couple of hours' sleep, and then we put this place in our rear view mirror,” Dean directs. “Look, I know this is bad, okay? You gotta snap out of it. Sam, say something!”

“Just get some sleep and leave in the morning?” Sam echoes. “Murder, Dean. That’s what I did.”

“And…and we’re figuring it out,” I answer. “There’s probably a logical explanation for all of this, and if there isn’t, then…we’ll, that’s fine! Yeah? Everything is going to be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, we don’t know, maybe it was a shapeshifter!” Dean adds, nodding frantically.

“Oh, come on,” Sam scoffs. “You know it wasn’t, you saw the tape. There was no eye flare, no distortion—“

“Yeah, but it wasn’t you! Alright?!” Dean exclaims, cutting him off. “I mean, yeah, it might have been you, but it wasn’t you.”

Him, but not him. He’s not himself. Maybe there’s some sort of spell on him, or a demon sickness that makes you act differently, or—Huh. No, that can’t be it. He hasn’t shown any signs.

“Well, I think it was,” Sam answers, taking me away from my thoughts. “I think maybe more than you know.”

“Why are you being cryptic?” I ask, looking over him with new eyes as I cross my arms against my chest. Has he been acting differently?

“For the last few weeks I’ve been having…I’ve been having these feelings. Rage. Hate. And I can’t stop it. It just gets worse. Day by day, it gets worse,” he explains, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You never told me this,” Dean replies, not bothering to directly acknowledge what he said.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him, ignoring Dean's comment. “You don’t just suddenly start being angry and hating people or things out of nowhere. You’re not even an angry person, Sam.”

“Maybe it’s the yellow-eyed demon and whatever plans he has for me,” he reasons. “And we know that he’s turned other children into killers before, too.”

“No, no,” I shake my head. “He encouraged, he didn’t make. And he didn’t make you. This—this…are you doing some self-fulfilling prophecy thing here?”

“What?” he exclaims, looking at me like I’ve said something truly odd. “It just—it feels like no matter what I do, slowly but surely, I’m… I'm just becoming…”

“What?” Dean asks.

“Who I’m meant to be,” he answers. “I mean, you said it once yourself, Dean. I gotta face up to who I am.”

“I didn’t mean this!” he exclaims.

None of this makes sense. I just keep thinking that, as if acknowledging it could reveal what does make sense. This doesn’t even feel like Sam. I mean, it’s him, but the words feel reused or reheated like he’s a shell of himself. He’s not talking like he normally does; his speech pattern is just a little off, and his words are not as smooth. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone, or maybe I should turn to the far wall to find a camera like in The Truman Show.

“But it’s still true. You know that. Dad knew that, too. That’s why he told you if it ever came to this…”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean orders, teeth gritting.

“Dean, you promised him. You promised me,” he continues anyway.

“No, listen to me,” Dean says. “We’re gonna figure this out, okay? I mean, there’s gotta be a way, right?”

“Yeah, there is,” Sam answers, getting up from the bed. In two strides, he’s at his duffel bag, pulling out a handgun. He lets it rest flat in his palm as if offering it up as a sacrifice. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone else. I don’t wanna hurt you. I can’t fight this forever.”

A week’s worth of memories gone, he doesn’t even remember leaving dinner, even though I know he wasn’t drunk. I couldn’t track him, though I’m not sure how he blocked me; he didn’t do it the last time he disappeared. He killed someone, and we don’t know why. I couldn’t track him like I couldn’t track Ava. The same Ava that got taken by a de—

His head turns as I raise my hand, as if he sensed it before I knew that I was doing it. The grip on his gun tightens, and in a swift movement, he whips the gun against the side of Dean's head, forcing him to go down. I push energy forward as his eyes go completely black, the gun pointed at me. His body bends like a bow, and in slow motion, he launches backwards into the wall while the gun goes off with a bang! Searing pain shoots through my left shoulder, the force pushing me back.

I stumble against the wall, feeling the blood trickling down. “Why are you doing this?” I shout.

He, or it, pulls himself to his feet without struggle. With a wicked smile, he trudges forward. And I know it isn’t really him, but he’s still in there, so I can’t just hurt him.

“How’d you figure it out?” he asks instead, licking his lips and tilting his head just so. “What gave me away?”

“Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino,” I say instead, watching his expression for signs that this exorcism is working.

“Mm,” he purrs, chest rumbling. “That won’t work this time.”

He lunges forward, his large hand wrapping around my neck. He slams my head against the wall, my vision blurring and my head throbbing. And he was right, he hadn’t so much as flinched or frozen from the exorcism line.

“Come on, at least fight back,” he urges as he squeezes at my throat, my breath getting trapped. “I thought you liked hurting people.”

I squirm, pushing at his wrist. I don’t want to hurt Sam. I don’t want to get him killed. But, if I let him go, he might kill someone else.

I thrash against his hold, choking on the lack of air and the crushing of my windpipes. His black eyes bore into me like two pools of ink, challenging me to do something. But I can’t fight him—I can’t hurt him. Sensing this, his snarl deepens, his hand tightens, and with all his demonic strength, he pulls me from the wall to bash my head right against it. Tears fill my eyes, and I thrash uselessly. Over and over, he bashes my head in, blood pooling, and vision blurring until the black spots bring me into complete darkness.

********

“Wake up. C’mon, baby, y’ gotta wake up,” a familiar voice says, shaking my shoulders gently.

My head buzzes, eyes fluttering open just enough to register Dean kneeling over me, his forehead bleeding. I groan, pressing my palm into the side of my head as I try to sit up.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” he whispers, cupping my face so gently between his hands, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks.

I raise my own hand up to his face, carefully touching the gash on his forehead. He sucks in a sharp breath but doesn't push me away.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me. “‘Just a bad headache.”

I don’t believe him, not one bit. So, I let energy flow from my palm, desperately wanting to take away his pain regardless of how “small.” But the moment he catches on to what I’m trying to do, he grabs hold of my wrist, gently pulling my hand away with a little huff of laughter.

“Don’t go tryin’ to heal me when you’re hurtin’,” he lectures, glancing at the blood smear on the wall and then at the blood stain and hole in my left sleeve. “Now, c’mon, let’s hear that pretty voice, huh?”

“‘M not hurtin’” I answer, though my voice sounds quieter and weaker than I would’ve liked it to. I clear my throat, trying to rid it of the scratchiness, for even though whatever injuries I had are healed over, apparently quality of my voice isn’t included.

His knowing look turns to concern, eyebrows furrowed. Then, his hands move to the base of my neck, quickly undoing the top button of my cardigan and pushing it down my arms. His fingers ghost over my neck, my skin prickling in response to his touch.

“God, what’d he do to you, sweetheart?” he mutters. If hand prints were to be left behind on my neck, I know they would’ve been gone already, so I think, somehow, Dean just knows, even without the evidence.

“He isn’t himself,” I defend.

“I know,” he answers just as quickly. His hands skim out to my shoulders, pushing my left sleeve down to ghost his thumb over where the bullet hole would be. I’m healed and okay, though I can’t say the same thing for my poor shirt.

“I let him go, I’m sorry,” I say, scanning his face for tell. “I could’ve stopped hi—it. I should’ve. It might hurt someone else now, and it wanted me to fight back—to hurt it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt Sammy.”

“Hey, it’s okay. ‘M not blaming you,” he urges, scanning my face just the same. His hands run up my arms, pushing my sleeve back into place and giving my shoulders a comforting squeeze. “I—“

A rapid knocking against the door cuts him off. He huffs, the door pushing open before he can respond to the knocking. My heart spikes in my chest, so mere half-seconds before the manager turns to his left, I fix everything up with a blink of an eye. The blood smear on the wall vanishes along with the blood in my hair, the stain and hole in my shirt, and the gash on Dean's forehead.

“Hey, it’s past your checkout,” the guy says, not bothering to question why we’re sitting on the floor in the way that we are. “And I’ve got a couple here that need your room.”

The couple in question shuffle into view behind the manager. There’s a red-faced man in a pristine suit with a briefcase and a woman in tall heels, a short dress, and heavy makeup.

“Yeah, I’ll bet they do,” Dean remarks, reading the situation easily. His hand slides back down my arm to my elbow, which he uses his hold on to help me to my feet as he stands too. “What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty,” he answers. We’ve been knocked out for a while, then, like a couple of hours' worth of time.

“The guy who was with me, have you seen him?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, he left before dawn in your car, and you should have gone with him, because now I’m gonna have to charge you extra,” he answers. Great.

Wait. I left my purse in the car. Shit. And Dean and I never took our duffel bags out. Crap.

“Son of a…” Dean mutters.

“It’s just policy, sir,” he answers with a shit-eating grin.

“I need to use your computer,” Dean announces.

“Now, why would I let you use my computer?” he asks, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Dean grumbles something beneath his breath that I can’t catch. But he pulls out his wallet from his back pocket, flicking it open and pulling out all the bills he has. He holds up the stack, which has to be something like $300, pinched between his fingers with a knowing look.

The man’s face lights up as if he were a kid on Christmas morning.

“Right this way,” he says, snatching the bills up and gesturing towards the open door. Dean puts his wallet back and slaps on a fake smile.

We leave the “couple” behind to their own devices as we follow the manager out and to the main building for the lobby. He gestures towards the desktop, busying himself with counting his new stack of cash.

Dean rounds the desk, immediately picking up the phone and dialing a number.

“Hi, uh, sorry to bother you, but, uh, my son snuck out of the house last night and went to a Justin Timberlake concert,” Dean lies, coming up with a rather good excuse.

“What? Yeah. No, Justin is quite the triple threat. Uh, anyway, he’s not back yet, an—and I’m just…starting to worry,” he continues. He gives me a look, all wide-eyed and desperate. He takes the phone away from his ear, holding it out for me to take and muttering a “not takin’ me serious.”

I put the phone to my ear, putting on my most distraught voice, breathing picking up, and all. “Please! Please, my son is gone,” I beg whoever is on the other line. “My baby, he—he needs his insulin, and I know he didn’t take it with him an—“

“Ma’am! Ma’am,” the man on the other side of the phone cuts me off. “We’ll find your kid, okay? Just put your husband back on the phone, and we’ll get this worked out.”

“Thank you,” I answer, adding a sniffle to really seal the deal. I hand Dean back over the phone, not missing the amused little smile on his lips. He grabs my wrist as he takes the phone, guiding me to stand beside him behind the desk, giving my ass an appreciative squeeze.

“Hi, yeah, no, no, I’m on the website right now I just need to activate the GPS in his cell phone,” he says, moving his hand away from my ass to type. He puts in some password, I think the man over the phone is telling him, making a small box pull up on the map. The box is labeled “Dean J. Mahogoff” and has Dean’s current phone number. I guess Sam stole his phone or he left it in the car.

“Yeah, right there, Duluth, Minnesota. Yeah, that is a long way to go for a concert,” Dean remarks. “I appreciate your help.”

********

I keep my steps as silent as possible against the wooden floorboards of the bar. It took us about five hours to get here, and now Dean’s going to be breaching the place from the front while I go from the back to hopefully corner Sam. We don’t exactly have a capturing plan since we can’t and won’t risk hurting Sam. That being said, we do have holy water and guns.

A soft but groovy song plays faintly in the next room, growing just a little louder with each step I take closer to the salon doors.

A sob breaks through the slow tune, a familiar voice crying: “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Like Daddy, like daughter, you’re bait. Open up,” Sam’s voice answers.

Bait or not, we’re here. Gun raised, I step close enough to see the situation. He’s got Jo tied to a wooden pillar in the middle back of the empty bar. She’s shaking, crying, and there’s a gash on her head. He has a hunting knife stabbed into the wood just above her head.

“That’s a girl,” he purrs, shoving a knotted rag into her mouth.

I burst through the saloon doors at the same time Dean bursts through the front doors, our guns aimed right at him.

“Sam!” Dean barks.

Sam grabs the knife from the pillar, swiftly placing it at Jo’s throat while using her and the pillar to act as a shield from Dean's gun, but not mine.

“I begged you to stop me, Dean,” he reasons.

“You can drop the act!” I shout. “And put the knife down!”

His panicked expression drops to something out of boredom. “You know, you took all the fun out of this by figuring it out so quickly,” he muses, loosening his grip on Jo. He takes a couple of steps away from her and towards Dean, arms out wide as if to challenge him to do something. “This is what I’ll always become. Come on, Dean, put me out of my misery.”

So, I shoot. The loud bang is replaced by the spritz of water, a long rope of liquid hitting his side. He groans, the water sizzling and steaming where it hits him.

“That’s holy water, you demonic son of a bitch!” Dean shouts.

See, we do have holy water and guns, just the two of them together. We had spray-painted two water pistols grey and black to mimic the guns we use. At a distance, and with some confidence, it can look like the real thing, and frankly, we just needed the time it could buy us.

Dean shoots his gun, spraying him with more Holy water. Sam’s eyes turn black as he growls, arms raised in an attempt to block it. Then, he turns and runs full speed at a window on the far wall, the glass shattering as he lands outside.

I run after him, not wanting to waste anymore time. Dean can free Jo, and the water guns were only meant to get us so far.

Glass crunches beneath my boots and thumps against the concrete as I chase after him. He’s easy to follow with his too-tall frame, but his long legs make it hard to stay close. He ducks and weaves between buildings and spaces until he’s vanishing inside some large, open warehouse on a dock. I tend to end things here. He won’t leave Duluth, Minnesota.

I tuck my water gun into the back of my pants, calming my breath as I duck behind a huge wooden crate.

“You said you wanted a fight, right?” I shout into the dark space. “I’m ready for you!”

“Aw, you won’t hurt dear ol’ Sammy,” he answers, his voice carrying off from somewhere inside the place. “It’d break your heart if Dean doesn’t do it first—he’d never forgive you.”

I creep to a different pile of boxes, following after the sound of his voice. I can trap him. I’m capable. I can do something without hurting him.

But, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dean entering the warehouse, hiding behind something too. That complicates things. I turn back the way I came, slowly heading to him because it’d be better to be together than have three separate people tracking each other—it’d get confusing.

“So, who are you?” Dean shouts, shifting around.

“I got lots of names,” the demon answers cryptically.

Before Dean can move again, I make a little Post-it appear in front of him, posted to the crate he’s hiding behind. “I’m behind the box over your left shoulder,” it reads.

“Why didn’t you kill us? You had a dozen chances,” he shouts, taking and crumpling the paper up. He looks over his shoulder, briefly catching my eyes to nod to the left so as to say where to meet him.

“That would have been too easy. Where’s the fun in that?” the demon in Sam admits. “You see, this was a test. Wanted to see if I could push you far enough to waste Sam. Should’ve known you wouldn’t have the sack. Anyway, fun’s over now.”

Dean and I’s shoulders bump as we meet at the next crate, but I’m glad we’re together.

“Well, I hope you got your kicks,” Dean answers. “'Cause you’re gonna pay hell for this, I’m gonna make sure of that.”

“See, I think you’re gonna die, Dean,” he counters, sounding so sure of himself. “You and every other hunter I can find. One look at Sam’s dewy, sensitive eyes? They’ll let me right in their door.”

I focus on the remains of his echoing voice, following it in my mind as far as it will go. Fog, carrying a purple hue, rolls in off the sea, the thick smoke clinging to the ground and wrapping around the crates and pallets around us. Everything falls away, every pillar and hiding space we’ve been using to stalk and lurk, leaving us in empty darkness; just the two of us: me and the demon in Sam.

He’s at a distance in the darkness, fog clinging to our feet. He whips around, dark eyes searching the void. I lurk closer and closer, vanishing out of sight every time he turns.

Now, I’m right behind him, hands slowly raising to reach his temples in hopes of putting him to sleep.

“This won’t work again,” he says, eyes tracking around the space carefully.

Again? I pause.

“Meg?”

Bang!

I stammer back, my illusion falling away. Pain erupts along my stomach where blood gushes from the small wound. He smiles as I crumble to the ground, my eyes falling to the gun in his hand—a weapon I did not know he had on him.

My ears buzz, my hand already soaked in my blood. It’s not healing. I can’t feel it. I failed.

Amongst the shuddering of my body and the droning in my ears, I hear a scream of my name, something so primal and raw that I know immediately who it belongs to. I follow the commotion with my eyes, head rolling to the side to watch Dean by the edge of the dock, his eyes locating mine. He’s not focusing on the right things. Sam is lurking behind him, gun raised, and I raise my hand too, trying to push power from my hand as I’ve done a hundred times before, but nothing comes.

Dean sees my hand and turns too slow, another bang! echoing in the night. He’s hit and pushed over the dock with a splash. I choke on a sob and the pain, trying to drag myself towards the dock's edge. Sam is standing there at the ledge, smiling down at the water, proud of what he’s done.

I want to kill him. I want to kill that demon inside of him.

“At least you’ll be together in death!” he shouts, looking over at me with that wicked smile I want to smash into the ground. “Have fun bleeding out.” He waves in mockery, finally turning to go.

Rage bubbles in my veins, pushing me to lift myself up onto my arms even as I pant and cry in protest.

Sam is long out of sight by the time I get to my feet; he’s quick with his getaway. I clutch my stomach, feeling the blood continue to gush with each wobbly and uneven step I take towards the water. There’s pain in every nerve, and yet I am incapable of doing anything else but finding my love.

Chill air licks at my skin as I peer over the dock into the water.

“Dean!” I yell, voice breaking halfway through.

There’s movement in the water, rapid splashing, ripples, and a hand shooting up.

He’s alive. A weight is lifted off my chest, if only for a moment.

I jump into the water, the frigid temperature shocking my already shot system. Still, I put my pain and bleeding aside to swim my way to the movement. My teeth are clenched tightly, heavy breathing and grunts filling the air.

I grab down, pulling at his collar until his head surfaces above the water. He coughs and spits out water. I lean his weight back onto me—at least the water makes it easier.

“C’mon,” I grit out, struggling to hold his weight and swim us back to shore. He says something I can’t hear or make out in my focus on saving us.

After what feels like an eternity of kicking, though it couldn’t have been very long, we make it to the dock. He lifts himself onto the wooden platform, reaching back to pull me up with his right hand.

I bite back a sob of pain as I hit the dock, but it comes out as a muffled whimper—a noise that Dean catches quickly. He’s on me in seconds, rolling me onto my back, my clothes sticking uncomfortably to my skin from the water.

I watch his jaw tighten as he sees my blood-soaked shirt. He peels the hem of my shirt back, assessing the damage. It’s too much blood, I know. But I’m focused on the gunshot to his left shoulder.

“C’mon, baby, just focus on healing, yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

His love is my salvation, I know it.

“Can’t,” I mutter what he must already know. “‘S iron. Can’t.”

His jaw ticks, and his bottom lip wobbles.

“Gotta…gotta get you back to the bar, okay? You’ll be okay,” he says, though it feels like he’s reassuring himself. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

He helps me to my feet, mumbling an apology, as I make a noise of pain. We essentially hold each other up as we walk in stumbling steps. That’s a lie; he’s certainly holding more of my weight, and I’m the one stumbling.

“Almost there, baby,” he says, though I know we aren’t. I think we’ve made it a block at most.

With each step, I can feel new blood spill from my wound. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, but it’s barely enough to keep me from feeling tired and cold.

He stops walking, pausing to hold my face for him to see. He’s so pretty even with his worried look. I don’t want him to worry about me. He scans my face, eyes lingering on my lips. Whatever he sees, he doesn’t say; he bends slightly and sweeps me off my feet, carrying me in his arms bridal style.

“Dean, stop! Put me down,” I urge quickly. “You’re gonna hurt your arm more.”

He grunts, his jaw clenched so tightly I’m worried he’ll crack a tooth. He's in pain, and he’s being an idiot.

“I’m fine,” he mutters through gritted teeth, ignoring my pleas in favor of walking in quick strides. “‘N you’re bleeding too much. Not gonna lose you.”

He makes another noise of pain, but cuts me off when I try to get him to let me down. He’d make my pain his own if he could, and that scares me because he has so much on his plate already; he doesn’t need my troubles. And if he hadn’t been distracted by me, then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten shot and could’ve stopped Sam from vanishing.

Finally, he pushes open the bar door, nearly knocking Jo down in the process.

“I was just about to go looking for you gu—oh my god,” she gaped. I’m sure we’re quite the sight, soaked and bloody.

He doesn’t answer her, and he doesn’t put me down until he gets to the bar top. He lies me down carefully, even making sure my head doesn’t slam against the wood. Finally, he slumps down into a chair, his breathing hard and his hand clutching over his wound, which I know is worse now.

I try to sit up because he needs help too, but he pushes me back down with a hand on my shoulder.

“Dean,” I lecture.

“Baby, I love you, but you need to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut and let me help you,” he counters.

“Oh…Wait, are you guys…you’re dating?” Jo asks, a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a med-kit in the other.

“You can get a life update later. She needs help,” Dean barks, reaching for the medical kit. But Jo pulls it out of reach, rounding the bar.

“You’re in no condition to be doing anything for her,” she counters, pouring the clear alcohol into a shot glass. She opens the kit, pulling out something that looks like tweezers and dipping it into the alcohol.

“Thank you!” I remark, glad someone sees it. Still, Dean pulls up my shirt, letting it rest just below the hem of my bra.

“You’re in no condition to help him, either,” she corrects, grabbing a bottle of whiskey off the wall behind her to slide it to Dean.

“Mhm,” Dean hums like a know-it-all, yet this is the least mocking he can be.

“Maybe you want a drink before I start?” Jo offers, nodding towards the whiskey bottle.

“I don’t drink—“

“She doesn’t drink like that,” Dean and I say in near unison.

“Okay…” she mutters.

She wets a rag with the clear alcohol, using it to wipe away the blood coating my skin and to sanitize the hole in my stomach. Then, she takes the tweezers and digs into the hole for the bullet. I suck in a sharp breath, trying to bite back my groan. My nose scrunches in pain, my back arches against the table top, and my nails dig into the wood beneath me. Dean's hand finds mine, covering it with his own as if to lend support in the only way he knows how.

“Didn’t know we had these bullets,” I grunt.

“We don’t. I wouldn’t do that,” he answers firmly. He wouldn’t do that to me, he means. He shifts back onto his feet, using his good hand to brush the wet strands of hair off my face. His thumb brushes away the mix of water droplets and tears from beneath my eyes.

“‘Doing so good,” he whispers before pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead.

White spots blink in my vision from the pain; my attempts at muffling my cries are fruitless against the digging and the burning.

“Got it!” Jo finally announces. She pulls out the iron bullet in all its deformed glory, more blood spilling out in exchange. The bullet drops into the shot glass with a clatter.

She cleans up some of the blood before putting a gauze pad against the wound. Then, she uses a bunch of gauze to wrap around my torso, applying pressure and security to my injury.

“Alright, your turn,” she says to Dean.

He shrugs off his jacket with a wince, the sleeve of his shirt covered in blood. He rolls up his short sleeve and takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle Jo had given him.

With her equipment once again sanitized, she begins to search for the bullet lodged in his left shoulder. He groans loudly, his right hand gripping the edge of the bar top like his life depended on it.

“Don’t be a baby!” Jo lectures.

“God!” he shouts, tucking his face away from her and therefore towards me. I brush my fingers through his wet hair, hoping to offer him simple comfort.

“Almost,” she mumbles. “Alright, got it. Got it.”

She drops the bullet into the little shot glass while Dean takes a couple of long swigs of whiskey. I can’t blame him.

“God, you’re a butcher,” Dean grumbles.

“You’re welcome,” she remarks with a roll of her eyes.

“Alright, are we done?” he asks.

“Uh-uh,” I hum, letting my hand slip to his chest. But he catches my wrist and pulls my hand away before I can do anything.

“You’re gonna pass out if you heal me,” he points out, his voice so firm it’s practically an order to stop in itself.

“Then let Jo patch you up,” I reason. “Please.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, thumb brushing over my knuckles.

I catch Jo rolling her eyes as she prepares the gauze. She layers the gauze pads and tapes it over the wound. It’s good for now, but it’ll need to be changed in a few hours, and he’ll need to be healed whether he likes it or not.

“So, how did you know? That he was possessed?” Jo asks softly.

“I didn’t,” he answers honestly, glancing at me. “She did.”

Her eyes turn to me expectantly. I push myself to sit up, grimacing in the process, Dean’s hands hovering to help me up. I shift to sit at the edge of the bar, legs dangling off the side close to Dean

“Speech pattern,” I answer. But she just looks at me like I grew another head. “He has certain intonations, you know, like he normally goes up on certain words…? Um, it just didn’t sound like him, didn’t make sense, and it reminded me of something else, so…”

She hums in acknowledgment as if needing to digest the information. “Hey…I know demons lie, but…do they ever tell the truth, too?” she asks next.

“Yeah, sometimes, I guess,” Dean answers, resting his hand on my knee. “Especially if they know it’ll mess with your head. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” she says with a wave of her hand. “So, do you have any idea where he’s headed to next?”

“Well, so far he’s been going after the nearest hunter, so…closest one I know lives in South Dakota,” Dean explains.

Bobby. We may have started off on the wrong foot: gun pointed at me and all, but I respect Bobby, and I think his grumpiness is rather endearing.

“Okay, let’s go,” she nods.

“Yeah, you’re not coming,” he declares as he stands up. He turns to me, giving me his support to slip off the tabletop.

“The hell I’m not! I’m a part of this now,” she argues.

“I can’t say it more plainly than this. You try to follow us and I’ll tie you right back to that post and leave you there,” he says, bluntly. “I’m not getting your blood on my hands. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

She huffs, chewing over the words before she tosses some pain meds our way. I guess, deep down, she understands Dean's reasoning, at least I hope she does.

It takes us hours to reach South Dakota. We had the Impala back (because he left it this time) and fresh clothes, but none of that could make up for the pain we were in.

There was a debate on who would drive, considering neither of us was in great shape, but it ended in an agreement to split it when we grew tired. It allowed each of us to get in 90-minute naps at least.

We were about thirty minutes out from Bobby’s when he called and told us he had Sam. Bobby was smart enough to put holy water in his drink, which apparently he did out of precaution rather than a hunch. Either way, we were glad for it.

Now, he’s tied to a chair beneath the same protective circle we had made for Meg. That was something I had to reveal, too—that Meg was back. We don’t know how, just that she is.

Dean stops in front of the chair, his back to the crackling fireplace. In a swift movement, he smacks Sam across the face, jolting him awake.

“Hey,” he greets bitterly.

Sam looks up, taking note of the painted trap on the ceiling. I hope the demon in him recognizes it with fear.

“Dean. Back from the dead,” Sam starts, slowly meeting his gaze. “Getting to be a regular thing for you, isn’t it? Like a cockroach.”

“How about I smack that smartass right out of your mouth,” Dean spits.

“Oh, careful, now,” he grins, teasing and mocking in the same way Meg had. I guess it’s just its personality. “Wouldn’t want to bruise this fine packaging.”

“Oh, don’t worry, this isn’t gonna hurt Sam much,” he answers, picking up the prepared bucket of holy water. “You, on the other hand…”

He tosses the water onto demon-Sam, who, in turn, sizzles and fights against his restraints with animalistic screaming.

“Feel like talking now?” Dean muses.

“Sam’s still my meat puppet. I’ll make him bite off his tongue,” he threatens.

“No, you won’t be in him long enough,” he replies simply, glancing over at me to start. I had warned him before that my attempt at an exorcism didn’t work, but we agreed to give it another go, considering we had the Devil Trap to weaken it.

“Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domin,” I start. “Tribuite virtutem deo…”

“See, whatever bitch-boy master plan you demons are cooking up? You’re not getting Sam,” Dean tells it, talking over me.

“…Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…”

“You understand me? ‘Cause I’m gonna kill every one of you first.”

“Omnis incuriso infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, onmis congregatio et secta diabolica....”

The demon pulls on its bindings, grunting in pain and shaking.

“You really think that’s what this is about? The master plan?” It spits, eyes wide and manic. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the master plan.”

“…Ergo, perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae…”

Then, he throws his head back in crazed laughter. Laughter. The trap wasn’t helping.

“Oops, doesn’t seem to be working. See, I learned a few new tricks,” he says, lowering his head. “Spiritus in mundus, un glorum suarum umitite palatum iram, domine…”

‘Spirit into the world, one of your glories moisten the plate of anger, Lord,’ my mind translates quickly.

The fireplace begins to flare, the room shaking violently with each new word he echoes.

“Silentium!” I shout. Silence. Its words are cut off sharply, its lips melded together as if there were glue between them. Its eyes go wide, jaw clearly working in an attempt to spit more Latin.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks frantically.

“It’s a binding link!” Bobby shouts, pointing to the circular burn mark peeking out beneath Sam’s sleeve. “It’s like a lock. He’s locked himself inside Sam’s body.”

“How do we unlock him?” I ask.

“I don’t k—“ Bobby’s answer is cut off by a loud crack, the paint in the ceiling fractured by a short zigzag despite the silence bestowed upon the demon.

His eyes of pure darkness bore into me, seeing through me to my very core. He jerks his chin, sending me flying back into a bookshelf. The wood shatters at my back, knocking the air from my lungs. I crumble to the floor, the pain in my abdomen throbbing.

I stumble to my feet, finding Sam out of the chair and standing over Dean, who is also on the floor. He must’ve been flung, too.

“All that I had to hold onto in hell was knowing that I would climb out one day to torture you nice and slow,” he reveals, kneeling to smash his fist agaisnt Deans face. “Like pulling the wings off an insect.”

With a drag of my wrist, an invisible force pulls him away from Dean, sending him scraping against the wooden floor. I stalk closer to him, tendrils of energy curling around his wrists and ankles to keep him down.

“You know you’re worthless, Dean! You couldn’t save your Dad, and deep down you know that you can’t save your brother. They’d have been better off—“

“Prohibere!” I shout, making the room shake. Stop.

A new rope of energy closes over his mouth like makeshift tape as I kneel at his side, rolling up his sleeve. I cover the newly exposed binding mark with my hands, putting all my focus and energy onto it.

“Ab his ligat malum tuum dimitte. Aufer hunc dolorem, Domine, hoc malum cape,” I ramble. From these binds your evil, release it. Take away this pain, Lord, take away this evil. The ground shakes beneath me, my hair brushing back from a breeze carrying in from somewhere. My shoulders tremble, eyes rolling back by themselves with each spit of Latin. Beneath my fingers and my mumbled words, the raised skin of the mark begins to fade.

His jaw slacks open, black smoke spilling from his mouth like a whirlwind, zooming out of him and up the chimney to go god knows where. Sam’s head thumps against the floor as he comes to, his eyes frantically looking around. I release my hold on him, letting his binds disappear and freeing his arm from my grasp.

“Sammy?” Dean grumbles.

“Did I miss anything?” he asks, looking around.

I sigh, body going limp. My abdomen aches and throbs from my previous movements, the pain making it all the easier for my eyes to fall shut.

I wake curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over me. I blink, slowly adjusting to waking up.

Bobby walks into the living room with a frown and a steaming mug.

“C’mon kid,” he nods towards the other room. “Boys are inside.”

I slowly rise from the couch, my head aching. I accept the mug he hands over, the warmth comforting in my hands. He leads me over to his study, which is now clean. Sam is sitting behind the desk, Dean sitting across from him with an icepack pressed to his face.

Sam glances over Bobby and me as we enter; he looks better now. I’m glad he’s himself. “What is it, Bobby?” he asks.

“You boys ever hear of a hunter named Steve Wandell?” he asks.

Oh, shit.

Dean shakes his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Just heard from a friend, Wandell’s dead. Murdered in his own house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” he continued.

“No, sir, never heard of the guy,” Dean answers smoothly, though I can’t say the same for Sam, who can no longer meet Bobby’s gaze.

“Dean–”

“Good. Keep it that way,” Bobby cuts Sam off. He must know the truth. He’s smart; he probably figured it out already. “Wandell’s buddies are looking for someone or something to string up, and they’re not going to slow down to listen to reason. You understand what I’m saying?”

“We'd better hit the road,” Dean nods, catching on.

“Here, take these,” Bobby says. He pulls out three small charms from his pocket, handing one to each of us. “They’ll fend off possession. The demon’s still out there. This’ll stop it from getting back up in ya.”

The charm is metal and looks like a pentagram surrounded by a sun. We’ll have to make these into necklaces or a bracelet, something we can keep on us at all times.

“That sounds vaguely dirty, but thanks,” Dean remarks.

“You’re welcome. You be careful now.”

********

“You okay, Sam? Is that you in there?” Dean half-jokes, using the rear-view mirror to check up on Sam and his frowning. He had been banished to the backseat for several things, but mainly because he stole the Impala, and we found it outside the bar without the keys. Dean had to hotwire it.

“I was awake for some of it. I watched myself kill Wandell with my own two hands; I saw the light go out in his eyes,” he explains, slumping deeper into his seat.

“That must have been awful,” Dean answers, hands shifting against the steering wheel.

“That’s not my point,” he shakes his head. “I almost carved up Jo, too. But no matter what I did, you two wouldn’t shoot.”

“Sammy, you were being possessed,” I answer.

“Yeah, this time. What about next time?” he counters.

“There won’t be a next time because you aren’t going to suddenly become evil,” I reason.

“Sam, when Dad told me…that I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn’t save you,” Dean adds. “Now, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna save you.”

His sincerity leaves nothing else to be said. Its evident that he will do everything in his power to keep Sam safe—that’s just how Dean is.

After a moment of quietness, Dean begins to laugh softly.

“What?” I ask, smiling from his infectious laughter.

“Nothing,” he answers, trying to straighten his wide smile out.

“Dude, what?” Sam exclaims.

“Dude, you—you like, full-on had a girl inside you for like a whole week,” Dean laughs again, harder this time, like he can’t control it. His stupid remark makes Sam laugh, though. “That’s pretty naughty.”

(Next Chapter)

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