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underground-secret · 8 months

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The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean

Winchester x f!reader

Description: Sam is haunted by a vision of a woman trapped in his childhood house

Warning: cannon violence, tension/ minor flirting, slight angst and comfort, mentions of death, mentions of a dead parent, the use of witchcraft that isn't exactly apart of Supernatural lore but does have ties to many folklore's interpretations of a witches capability from European Folklore to Appalachian Folk Magic and many more (i used a mix of different lore to create my own interpretation) this took so long to research, l also was testing things out in my apartment so i'd be able to write it properly- literally rearranging furniture for it

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld ,

@okayiamkassandra, @fablerose , @ada--44

Word Count: 12,947

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(Master list, Previous Ch., Next Ch.)

I stumble into the boys motel room, stifling a yawn from passing through my lips. Did I wake up two hours ago and refuse to get out of the stiff motel bed instead of coming to meet my lovely friends in their room?

Yes!

“Good morning my little stabby hunters” I greet cheerfully, closing and locking the door behind me. Sam mumbles some incoherent version of a greeting from where he sat on his bed while Dean looks up from Sam’s laptop, “Mornin’ sweetheart”

I walk up to each boy individually giving their hair a nice ruffle before shuffling my way to sit criss-cross applesauce on the unoccupied bed. “You had perfect timing ‘cause I think I found a few candidates for our next gig.”

“Oooh how fun” I half sarcastically say, “read ‘em out!”

“Alright we got a fishing trawler found off the coast of Cali” I nod pretending to know what a ‘trawler’ is, “ –-its crew vanished. And, uh, we got some cattle mutilations in West Texas.” Dean lists out looking up every now and then for a reaction, “Hey. Sammy.” He calls out to his brother who’s sat drawing something on a little notepad.

Sam looks up, giving Dean an annoyed look waiting for what he has to say. Dean leans back in his chair, “Am I boring you with this hunting evil stuff?”

“No. I’m listening. Keep going.” Sam declares, going right back to his drawing. He was in fact not paying attention.

“And, here, a Sacramento man shot himself in the head. Three times.” He stops speaking again, waving his hand in the air intended to get his brother's attention, “Any of these things blowin’ up your skirt, pal?”

Sam suddenly sits up fully, “Wait. I’ve seen this.”

“Seen what?” I ask, Dean and I sharing a confused look. But Sam doesn't answer, he just crosses the room towards his duffel bag, searching for something. “What are you doing?” Dean asks. Again Sam doesn't answer, finally finding whatever he was looking for he pauses studying the two things in his hands, he swiftly turns around “I know where we have to go next.”

“Where?” Dean muses, asking the question were both thinking.

“Back home –- back to Kansas” Sam breathes, a hint of panic in his eyes.

“Okay, random. Where’d that come from?”

Sam shows the thing he took out of his bag, a photo, to his brother, I get up to view it too. “All right, um, this photo was taken in front of our old house, right? The house where Mom died?” Sam asks, looking between the sort of family photo taken in front of their house and his brother.

“Yeah.” Dean answers plainly.

“And it didn’t burn down, right? I mean, not completely, they rebuilt it, right?” Sam asks further.

“Yeah it took ‘em a while to, I think it was mostly out of respect because no one ever moved in after you either, as far as I know.” I answer only knowing because I lived in town even after they moved away.

“Okay, well, someone lives there now…and, I, uh, look, this is gonna sound crazy but….the people who live in our old house –- I think they might be in danger.” Sam stammers

“Why would you think that?” Dean asks the obvious question. “Uh…it’s just, um….look, just trust me on this, okay?” He starts to walk away to the other side of the room, Dean following suit, “Wait, whoa, whoa, trust you?”

The fighting begins, I think to myself as I chew on the inside of my cheek. I knew Dean would probably act harsher then he meant to, his mom—his old house being a very rough topic for him.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to answer simply, “Yeah.”

“Come on, man, that’s weak. You gotta give me a little bit more than that.” Dean raises his voice slightly.

“I can’t really explain it is all” Sam says looking around the room instead of making eye contact.

“Well, tough. I’m not goin’ anywhere until you do” Dean crosses his arms waiting expectantly.

Sam sighs, “I have these nightmares.”

“I’ve noticed” Dean says while nodding and I want to step in and lecture him for coming off so mean, but I bite my tongue.

“And sometimes…” Sam pauses for a while before continuing, “…they come true.” This time I don’t bite my tongue, the word slipping out of my lips out of pure shock, “Sam” I gasp. “Come again?” Dean says almost at the same time as my gasp.

“Look….I dreamt about Jessica’s death –- for days before it happened.” Sam tries to explain further, nearly getting cut off by his brother, “Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” I know Dean doesn't want to believe it, I know he’s scared of what this could mean. But I can’t help but feel this is like the argument Dean had started on my twelfth birthday, all those years ago. It felt especially silly to feel this way now, not when I never held a grudge against him because of it. Maybe I should have but I could never find it within myself to do so.

Dean sits down on one of the beds and it’s clear he doesn't know what to do with himself. Sam begins to explain himself more, which I hate the fact he has to, “No, I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn’t do anything about it ‘cause I didn’t believe it. And now I’m dreaming about that tree, about our house, and about some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that’s where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?”

“I don’t know.” Dean huffs out. It’s clear he’s overwhelmed, which is a significantly better reaction than what I got to his whole realization of what I really was—a witch—despite the fact he already knew that. I want to respect their relationship and not speak when it’s not my right to, and yet if it comes down to it I know I will. I won’t let their relationship fall apart because of this, I won’t let a hatred form between them. Let alone like how Dean had hated me for months and I had hated myself too.

“I-it can mean something. There's a lot of cultures that believe that dreams are capable of showing the future as a guidance or even as a warning. Egyptians, Romans, and Greeks, they all believed in this; it's,um, called oneiromancy.” I pipe in quietly as if scared that saying it too loud would shatter the delicate atmosphere. Sam was looking at me with big eyes like he was hanging on to each word I spoke, nodding along.

“All right, just slow down, would ya?” Dean stands abruptly beginning to pace the carpeted floor, “I mean, first you tell me that you’ve got the Shining? And then you tell me that I’ve gotta go back home? Especially when….”

“When what?” Sam asks carefully.

Dean sounds on the verge of tears, probably the most vulnerable he’s been in a long time, “When I swore to myself that I would never go back there?” The air, the atmosphere itself, felt fragile then too as if something so palpable had to be careful of where it stood

Sam begins softly, his eyes scrunched in a mix of worry and sympathy, “Look, Dean, we have to check this out. Just to make sure.”

“I know we do.” Dean nods, his head hung low.

The Impala pulls up in front of the old Winchester house, the cute little two story green house standing there simply. I can’t help but wonder if in a hundred years these people who lived in Lawrence would know what happened here? The family that was lost here? Maybe not physically but you can trace everything back to this simple house, where these boys lost a piece of themselves no matter how young they were. You can still feel it in the air now, in this car with Dean's head hung low as he peers up at his old house, the only and last house he’s ever had.

“You gonna be all right, man?” Sam asks, trying to catch his brother's eyes. Dean swallow’s thickly, “Let me get back to you on that.” We exit the safety of the car and with each step forward the weight of this settles on our shoulders, the realness of this all. I know this isn’t about me, but if I let my mind stop focusing on the task at hand I know that it will wisp away to my old house. Just on the other side of town, to every moment I spent wandering the streets with no where particular in mind-

A sharp knocking on the front door snaps me out of my mind. A pretty blonde opens the door, her eyebrows scrunched in what seems like stress, “Yes?” she answers.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re with the Federal—“ Dean begins his lie getting cut off by his brother, “I’m Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend Y/N. My brother and I, uh, we used to live here. You know, we were just drivin’ by, and we were wondering if we could come see the old place.”

“Winchester. Yeah, that’s so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night.” She laughs lightly. Dean's face drops a little, a mix of curiosity and longing on his face that if I hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t known him so well I wouldn’t have recognized it. “You did?” he asks, and I'd have to think it was a look of longing for his life back then, before he lost his mom, to a life that was so simple and child-like because that might have been the only time he really was a child.

She nods and steps aside, “Come on in.” The inside of the house wasn’t so much different from what I’ve been told about it, she shuts and locks the door behind us and we wait for her to lead us further in before moving. “I’m Jenny by the way” she says moving past us. She leads us into the big kitchen, a young girl doing homework at the table while an adorable jumpy toddler bounces in his little playpen, I can’t help the smile that creeps up on my face at the sight.

“Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!” The toddler chants, bouncing as he speaks.

“That’s Ritchie. He’s kind of a juice junkie.” She introduces going over to the fridge, taking out a sippy cup and handing it to the bouncy baby. “He has good taste” I laugh, the kid being just so freaking adorable.

Jenny walks over to her daughter, “Sari, this is Sam and Dean, they used to live here. And that’s their friend Y/n.” I smile at the girl who greets us with a small “Hi.” Dean for some reason waved awkwardly at the child, as if he doesn't know how to act around kids when that’s so far from the truth.

“Hey, Sari.” Sam smiles before allowing her to get back to her homework.

“So, you just moved in?” Dean asks, jumping right to it. “Yeah, from Wichita.” Jenny answers, referring to a different part of Kansas.

“You got family here, or….?” Dean continues to ask, and honestly it’s kind of a creepy question. She answers a little hesitantly, “No. I just, uh….needed a fresh start, that’s all. So, new town, new job –- I mean, as soon as I find one. New house.”

“Do you like it here?” I ask genuinely. “Well, uh, all due respect to your childhood home” She starts looking at the boys as she speaks, “…I mean, I’m sure you had lots of happy memories here…but this place has its issues.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks almost a little too quickly.

Jenny sighs, “Well, it’s just getting old. Like the wiring, you know? We’ve got flickering lights almost hourly.”

“I think that’s an easy fix” I try to remain hopeful, it’s not like we can just tell her ‘oh yeah that’s ‘cause your house is probably haunted by a demon or something.’ And under the assumption that it was just faulty wiring, I really wasn’t sure if it was an easy fix. I mean I am no electrician.

“Anything else?” Dean adds in.

“Um…sink’s backed up, there’s rats in the basement.” She lists off before pausing for a beat, looking between us nervously, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” Dean looks a little taken back by this concern, because what was written on his face was far from offense, “No. Have you seen the rats or have you just heard scratching?”

“It’s just the scratching, actually.” She answers.

“Mom?” Sari calls out lightly, Jenny kneels down to her daughter waiting for her to continue, “Ask them if it was here when they lived here.”

“What, Sari?” Sam asks, confused.

“The thing in my closet.” She answers weakly, and I swear my heart broke a little at the way in which she said it.

“Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets.” Jenny answers softly, reminding me of my mothers soft tone when she spoke to us. Jenny looks up at the boys, “Right?”

Sam stumbles over his words as he answers, “Right. No, no, of course not.”

“She had a nightmare the other night.” Jenny explains, a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Sari shakes her head, “I wasn’t dreaming. It came into my bedroom –- and it was on fire.”

Uh oh.

~~~~~~~~

“You hear that? A figure on fire.” Sam whisper-shouts, mainly to his brother who was walking a little too quickly then necessary to his car. The man in question turns around swiftly, “And that woman, Jenny, that was the woman in your dreams?”

“Yeah. And you hear what she was talking about? Scratching, flickering lights, both signs of a malevolent spirit.” Sam bites back.

“Yeah, well, I’m just freaked out that your weirdo visions are comin’ true.” Dean snaps.

Sam’s eyes were wide with panic, “Well, forget about that for a minute. The thing in the house, do you think it’s the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?”

“I don’t know!” Dean snaps.

Back and forth they fight like two dogs having a barking match from just over the fence. “Well, I mean, has it come back or has it been here the whole time?” Sam starts again.

“Or maybe it’s something else entirely, Sam, we don’t know yet.”

“Well, those people are in danger, Dean. We have to get ‘em out of that house.”

“And we will.”

“No, I mean now.”

“And how you gonna do that, huh? You got a story that she’s gonna believe?”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“Both of you, stop!” I nearly shout, both boys going quiet, “Look” I sigh. “I get this is scary and all but you two bickering isn’t going to get us anywhere! And if we want to help that nice family we have to think logically. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, maybe it’s something else or maybe we have to prepare ourselves for the fact that it is that monster.

Either way we can’t just run into this with assumptions or lead on feeling alone, okay? ‘Cause that’s how we mess up and wind up dead and I don’t know ‘bout you boys but i’m not quite craving the taste of death just yet.” I take a deep breath before continuing, “So, let’s pretend this is any ol’ case, any other hunt. What do we do first?”

“Research” Dean mumbles as if he was a kid who got caught doing something wrong, which arguably isn’t so far from the truth.

“Check our bases, dig into the history” Sam adds.

“Exactly” I smile, “Good job”

Dean opens the driver seat door, getting in as he speaks, “Except this time, we already know what happened.”

Sam and I followed suit, “Yeah, but how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember?” he asks. Dean looks around a little uncomfortable, “About that night, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Not much. I remember the fire…the heat.” He pauses, “And then I carried you out the front door.”

“You did?” Sam asks surprised.

Dean scuffs, starting the car and pulling out of the spot, “Yeah, what, you never knew that?”

Sam shakes his head, “No.”

Dean continues, “And, well, you know Dad’s story as well as I do. Mom was….was on the ceiling. And whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her.”

“And he never had a theory about what did it?” Sam questions further, and up until now I didn’t realize how much he was kept in the dark about such a significant moment in his life.

Dean shrugs, “If he did, he kept it to himself. God knows we asked him enough times.” Sam starts again, “Okay. So, if we’re gonna figure out what’s goin’ on now…we have to figure out what happened back then. And see if it’s the same thing.”

Dean again looks around uncomfortably, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, “Yeah. We’ll talk to Dad’s friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time.”

Sam notices this obvious movement like I did and pauses for a moment, you could see the gears turning in his head, “Does this feel like just another job to you?” Dean clears his throat, suddenly jerking the car off to the left side of the road right up to the curb, the car poorly parked, “I’ll be right back. I gotta go to the bathroom.” The second he finishes his sentence he’s out of the car and walking away into some local business that I couldn’t quite see the name of.

“I- I don’t understand him” Sam suddenly says as he watches his brother leave, turning in the passenger seat to talk to me properly, “It would be so much easier if he just…” He sighs, “talked to me.”

“I… don’t want to excuse his actions because you are right, but at the same time you know he was never taught how to be vulnerable.” I try to explain, carefully choosing my words knowing there were eggshells surrounding our feet. He then mumbles something incoherently about their childhood, he looks back up at me, “you know, you don’t really talk about your childhood either.”

“Maybe it’s just something about Kansas” I joke, he laughs lowly, “But I ,uh, I would like to tell you about it…someday…” I offer shyly, trying to offer him something in a moment where he has nothing

“I’d like that, at least I could get closer to one of you” Sam smiles, sadly.

“Hey and maybe it will open the door to encourage Dean to speak up” I say.

“Yeah you know that’s not gonna happen” He scuffs.

“Well, I was trying to be a little optimistic.”

When Dean came back to the car he was dead quiet, his eyes were glossy but he refused to talk. It wasn’t uncommon for him, not one bit.

Sitting in the back of the Impala, I watched the buildings and trees pass by. All blocks I was familiar with even if it was far from where I had actually lived, but when you're lonely you tend to find walking for an eternity isn’t so bad. Funnily enough, sitting in the back of this car felt eerily similar to when I was a child, my dad as quiet as an owl, a then changed man having lost his world. Only, he had forgotten my brother and I had lost her too, and that we were still around to begin with.

Dean stared at the road like my dad had all those years ago, so deeply as if they were to look away it would disappear right beneath them. Then Sam sat in the passenger seat looking between his brother and out the window not knowing what to say, like my brother always did. And I of course still played the same role because some things never change, some feelings never do fully leave.

Dean suddenly clears his throat, “Alright, up ahead is an old pal of dads.” Just as suddenly as he said it, he also hadn’t given us time to say anything before pulling over once more, this time in front of a mechanic's place. A sign reading “Guenther’s Auto Repair” in big red letters hung above a large garage unit. The smell of metal and grease breeze by my nose as I exit the car, following after the two taller men with what I thought was a forgotten sadness now back. I can’t imagine how they must feel, how Dean must feel.

They effortlessly found and began a discussion with the owner, easily lying about being cops which felt especially wrong today. It felt wrong to lie to anyone from the town I pretty much grew up in, even if I never knew any of them.

“So you and John Winchester, you used to own this garage together?” Dean asks the older man. I knew their father was a mechanic but hadn’t known he had his own garage and partner.

“Yeah, we used to, a long time ago. Matter of fact, it must be, uh…twenty years since John disappeared. So why the cops interested all of a sudden?” He says, whipping his dirty hands on a rag stained with car grease.

“Oh, we’re re-opening some of our unsolved cases, and the Winchester disappearance is one of ‘em.” Dean answers smoothly, and I guess it isn’t technically a lie either. He accepts the answer with no further, visible, speculation, “Oh, well, what do you wanna know about John?”

“Well, whatever you remember, you know, whatever sticks out in your mind.” Dean suggests.

“Well…he was a stubborn bastard, I remember that.” He laughs. “And, uh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know? It’s that whole Marine thing. But, oh, he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids.” To that I have to stop myself from reacting, for some reason I can’t picture John being anything less of what he is now, in terms of strictness and toughness.

“But that was before the fire?” Sam points out.

He nods, “That’s right.”

“He ever talk about that night?” Sam adds. He seems to think for a moment, “No, not at first. I think he was in shock.”

“Right. But eventually? What did he say about it?” Sam clarifies.

“Oh, he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. He said somethin’ caused that fire and killed Mary.”

“He ever say what did it?” Dean asks this time.

“Nothin’ did it. It was an accident –- an electrical short in the ceiling or walls or somethin’. I begged him to get some help, but….” He explains.

“But what?”

“Oh, he just got worse and worse.” He answered, sympathy written all over his face.

“How?” Dean asks carefully.

“He started readin’ these strange ol’ books. He started goin’ to see this palm reader in town.” He says, suddenly catching my attention, an air of familiarity surrounding it.

“Palm reader? Uh, do you have a name?” Dean questions. I scrunch my eyebrows together trying to remember why this was familiar.

He responds at the same time it suddenly hits me, “No” he scuffs.

The name leaves my mouth in quiet thought, “Missouri Moseley.”

All three of them look at me strangely, before Dean grabs hold of my upper arm, throwing the man a smile and a “Excuse us.” He begins pulling me away from the garage and back to the car, his brother following after us after he had thanked the man.

“Where’d you get that name from?” Dean asks me sternly, looking down at me with sharp curious eyes, his grip on my arm never faulting.

I look up at him, his green eyes piercing mine, expectantly, but I find myself at a loss for words. Each syllable ready to be spoken but dying on my tongue, all in the fault of once more feeling like my younger self. Sam reaches for his brother's shoulder, almost pulling him away from me, “Ease up, Dean.” He shakes his brother off, but listens, releasing my arm and swallowing thickly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay” I cut him off quickly. I wasn’t scared of him at that moment, but of the past and I knew he was too. We all were.

“I remember your dad came over and mentioned that name, along with her being the real deal. I just don’t remember what the conversation was about, I mean it had to be years ago…” I feel my eyebrows scrunch together again as I try to recall more, glimpses of the memory popping up. Our dads sitting on the long vintage couches my mom had bought for the house while me and my brother ran outside to play, “It was at the original house, m-maybe a year before we moved to Kansas.”

“So three years after mom died” Sam nods.

“Yeah that seems about right, but I’m not sure if that encounter was like right after your dad met this Missouri or some time after.” I add

“It sounds familiar. '' Dean breathed out before rounding the car to the trunk, digging through it before pulling out the journal. “In Dad’s journal…here, look at this.” He flips it open, handing it off to his brother, “First page, first sentence, read that.”

Sam takes the book, reading the sentence out loud, “I went to Missouri and I learned the truth.”

“I always thought he meant the state.” Deans shrugs.

Missouri’s house was a cute little two story place. I admire the light brown wood paneling and stained glass windows, something I knew my mom would have loved. Dean and Sam sat squished together on a small couch, all of us waiting for her to be finished with her client. I choose to stand, not only to see them both quietly fight to sit on the couch but also to slightly look around the place without wandering around.

A round faced, warm brown skinned lady with big curly hair tied back in a ponytail escorts a man out of her house, “All right, there. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. Your wife is crazy about you.” She tells him, her voice a natural soft and sweet tone, accompanied with a southern accent.

She closes the front door behind him, turning to face us, “Whew. Poor bastard. His woman is cold-bangin’ the gardener.” Her sweet voice does nothing to soften her blunt statement, my eyes go wide with the comment.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Dean asks her,

“People don’t come here for the truth. They come for good news.” She answers simply, causing the room to fall quiet for a beat, “Well? Y/n, Sam and Dean, come on already, I ain’t got all day.” She leaves the room, I follow after her only pausing when I realize the boys weren’t following. I turn back towards them waving them over, they share a look before getting up and following.

“Well, lemme look at ya.” She laughs, “Oh, you boys grew up handsome.” She points a finger at Dean, “And you were one goofy-lookin’ kid, too.” A burst of laughter slips through my lips before I can control myself, his face falls and he glares at her.

Her gaze turns to me, my laughter dying out but a permanent smile left on my face, “Oh, you never lost your beauty” She smiles.

“You knew me when I was younger?” I ask, confused.

“Well of course, I knew your mother. Bless her soul” She answers, only leaving me more confused ‘cause my mom never mentioned her and I would sure remember such a sweet and funny woman.

“We helped each other out back then”, she explains, “She would always show me pictures of you and your brother. You were always a smiley girl, it’s good to see you didn’t lose that. Your mother would be glad too.” A warmth blossoms in my heart at that, my smile softens with me and it was like something I didn’t even know was within was fulfilled. It was hard to find new memories of my mom when I really didn’t know anyone who had known her, other than our family, to ask. Missouri hadn’t given me a full in depth memory and yet, it was enough. Enough to know someone else clearly adored my mom and had seen her in the same light I did. I don’t know why my mom never told us about her, but for some reason I didn’t feel the need to ask.

She gives me one last smile before giving her attention to Sam, she grabs his hand, her face falling, “Oh, honey…I’m sorry about your girlfriend.” A wave of shock clearly passes over the boys face, “And your father –- he’s missin’?” she continued.

“How’d you know all that?” Sam asks, clearly forgetting she is a psychic.

“Well, you were just thinkin’ it just now.” She explains.

“Well, where is he? Is he okay?” Dean rapidly spews out.

She half shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Well, you’re supposed to be a psychic, right?” He snaps back, far too hostile.

She gives him a weird look, “Boy, you see me sawin’ some bony tramp in half? You think I’m a magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can’t just pull facts out of thin air.” A laugh passes through my lips before I could stop myself, I nudge Dean's shoulder who glares sharply at me before turning that look to Missouri, only furthering my spits of giggles that I try to bite back.

Her demeanor changes back to gentle, “Sit, please.” We listen to her, I took a seat beside Sam so that I wasn’t squished between both boys. Missouri suddenly snaps at Dean, “Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I’m ‘a whack you with a spoon!”

“I didn’t do anything.” Dean argues, his voice seemingly an octave higher- like a child.

“But you were thinkin’ about it.” She answers.

“Oh, I like you” I say through my laughter, it was quite the breath of fresh air to see someone put gruff ‘macho man’ Dean in his place.

Sam gets back on topic, whipping the smile that formed on his face, “Okay. So, our dad –- when did you first meet him?”

“He came for a reading. A few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say…I drew back the curtains for him.” She responds.

“What about the fire? Do you know about what killed our mom?” Dean asks.

“A little. Your daddy took me to your house. He was hopin’ I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing” She explains.

“And could you?” Sam asks

She shakes her head, “I…”

“What was it?”

She answers softly, “I don’t know. Oh, but it was evil.”, She pauses for a beat, “So…you think somethin’ is back in that house?”

“Definitely” Sam breathes.

She shakes her head again, “I don’t understand.”

“What?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t been back inside, but I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the place, and it’s been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it actin’ up now?” She explains.

“I don’t know. But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house all happening at once –- it just feels like something’s starting.” Sam says, eyebrows scrunched in worry.

“That’s a comforting thought.” Dean mumbles.

~~~~~~~~~

The ride back to the Winchesters house was the light in this complex time. The entire ride Missouri lectured Dean on his driving saying he was just a little too reckless and was gonna get us all killed despite it being a generally short one. They bickered back and forth a while until Dean gave up grumbling something below his breath, causing another snap response from the woman herself.

When we finally arrived Dean quickly got out of the car before anyone else could even register being parked, I genuinely don’t think I've ever seen him happy to be out of Baby. He had very obviously, and purposefully, positioned himself so that he was standing next to me away from Missouri, in fact two people away as she stood on the other side of Sammy. I searched for Dean's hand, my fingers brushed against his larger rougher hand. I clasped it gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze to hopefully ease his tension, caused by the beef he had with the nice lady that was helping us to begin with, even though I most definitely found the whole thing hilarious. Just as Sam knocked on the door I released Dean's hand, bringing both my hands to clasp in front of me. A peak of nervousness rests in my gut as I feel his gaze on me, I ignore it, focusing my eyes forward while I rock on the balls of my feet.

Jenny answers the door, her blond hair messy and clear stress present in the crinkled corner of her eyes and worry etched into her pupils. She holds her baby, Ritchie, close to her chest, “Sam, Dean, Y/N. What are you doing here?”

Sam smiles at the blond, “Hey, Jenny. This is our friend, Missouri.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, we were hoping to show her the old house. You know, for old time’s sake” Dean chimes in.

She scrunches her nose, “You know, this isn’t a good time. I’m kind of busy.”

“Listen, Jenny, it’s important.” Dean tries to explain before Missouri smacks him hard on the back of the head, far harder than I ever do, “Ow!” He yelps, turning around swiftly towards the shorter woman, “How did you-!” He nearly yells holding the back of his head. He looks at her with big wild eyes, his yelling coming from the fact she was able to quietly get behind Sam and I to hit him.

Missouri cuts him off, “Give the poor girl a break, can’t you see she’s upset?” She then turns to Jenny, “Forgive this boy, he means well, he’s just not the sharpest tool in the shed, but hear me out.” Dean looks further stunned.

“About what?” Jenny asks, adjusting her hold on her kid.

“About this house.” Missouri answers.

“What are you talking about?” Jenny looks between us all, nervously.

“I think you know what I’m talking about. You think there’s something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?” Missouri says.

“Who are you?” Jenny asks just above a whisper.

“We’re people who can help, who can stop this thing. But you’re gonna have to trust us, just a little.” Missouri smiles comfortingly but even so Jenny looks unsure.

She seems to go over it in her head before finally sighing, “Alright.”

The four of us stand in Sari’s bedroom, Jenny having given us room to do what we need to while she waits downstairs with her kids. Sari’s room was a dark blue, a contrast to her pink and white furniture and toys.

“If there’s a dark energy around here, this room should be the center of it.” Missouri states, looking around the room carefully from where she stood.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“This used to be your nursery, Sam. This is where it all happened.” She answers, looking around the room. Dean pulls out his DIY EMF from the inside of his coat pocket, “That an EMF?” Missouri asks.

“Yeah.” Dean smiles smugly.

“Amateur.” Missouri says lowly, I don’t know why she was targeting Dean specifically but his reaction to her was too amusing to really ponder it.

The EMF beeps frantically, “I don’t know if you boys should be disappointed or relieved, but this ain’t the thing that took your mom.” Missouri announces.

“Wait, are you sure?” Sam asks frantically, getting a confident nod, “How do you know?”

“It isn’t the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It’s somethin’ different.” She answers, pausing for a beat before adding, “Can you feel it Y/N?”

My eyes widened in shock, “I’m sorry what?”

“You still got a lot to learn ‘bout your abilities'' She responds waving me over, “c’mere, you might be able to sense the energy.”

I hesitantly place my bag down before slowly walking over to her, she either senses my nervousness or reads my mind because she explains what she means, “Witches tend to have the best intuition and connection to the natural world, you should be able to sense energies especially spiritual ones with a second sight.”

She situates me in front of her with my back towards her, her hands clasp my arms tightly as they rest at my side. “Close your eyes, and just like meditation let everythin’ else fall away.”

I follow her instructions, my eyes fluttering shut reluctantly. I feel incredibly silly as I take a deep breath, the sage-y perfume of the woman behind me filling my nose. I breathe out slowly, forcing my mind to shut out the real world, which isn’t as hard as it should be with the quiet room and my nearly regular meditating. Complete darkness surrounds me as if the room itself had fallen away with all the people in it too, just me floating in an abyss.

I focused more closely on the house itself, extending my awareness far out to the block and then as if a dark fog hugged it I zeroed in on the house. Using my conscious self I pictured what it was like to walk through the house this time with a deep focus and new eyes.

With each step I ventured further into the house cautiously, a buzzing feeling rang through the house like when two strong magnets fight for equilibrium with a clatter. But despite the buzzing a physical warm glow emitted from the home's edges and like a hand reaching out it tried to conquer more of the house, yet it couldn’t. A force I couldn't quite tell held it back. The hair on the back of my neck stood tall, a cold chill running down my spine, I shrugged it off as I walked back up the stairs and down the hall to my physical self.

My foot only breached the doorway when a dreadful feeling filled the halls as if rooted beneath the wallpaper, a twinge of fear made its home in my stomach. I had never done this before, never went into my mind to feel the very things I hunt. I have no experience here, this is not my domain. They must know that as hushed murmurs fluttered around me with voices I couldn’t detect but knew they didn’t belong to anyone in the room. They wouldn’t be able to talk to me here so normally, maybe Missouri but certainly not Sam or Dean.

The murmurs became louder, each whisper jumbled over the next, talking over each other to the point of no recognition. My back hits the hard archway of the door's entrance, the sheer loudness of combined voices knocking me off balance. I braced myself against the door, nails biting into wood, my eyes shut tightly in effort to focus even further.

An unfamiliar cold hand brushes my forearm dragging its fingers up to my elbow as if standing beside me, I swiftly turn around backing up a few feet to see nothing near me. Another brush touches me, this time the back of my neck accompanied by a hot breath fanning by my ear. I don’t move away. this is not my domain, but it will be, and I will not show fear now. Latin spews from its mouth flowing right into my ear, a simple teasing statement, “Another toy.”

My eyes shoot open, pupils blown wide as my eyes adjust to the lighting as well as my mind being back in focus of the physical realm. My heart beats harshly against my chest, my lungs heaving with adrenaline.

A large hand clasps around my upper arm tightly, I nearly stumble back a step before my mind finally catches up with the present. “What is it?” Dean spews out quickly, his green eyes nearly crazed with worry.

I open my mouth to answer only to have Missouri answer for me instead, “You saw them.”

“F-felt more like” I stammer the feeling of its touch still lingering.

“What are they doing here?” Dean asks, looking between Missouri and I for answers, his hand still on my arm. Thing is I don’t have an answer, all that creepy spirit touching and I still don’t know everything.

But of course Missouri does, “They’re here because of what happened to your family. You see, all those years ago, real evil came to you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected.”

“This house buzzes with energy, literally you can feel it attracting paranormal energy. There’s two here right now…ones in the room. My head turns towards the closet, “A poltergeist. I’m not sure if it sees it as a game or what but I think it wants Jenny and her kids dead.” I know I’m right when Missouri nods her head.

“You both said there was more than one spirit.”

“There is. I just can’t quite make out the second one.” Missouri answers before adding, “You pick up anythin’”

“Only that it felt…good, if that makes sense. It was very different from the other. It was like this warmth trying to consume the house or really rid the house of its evil.” I answer by trying to make sense of everything that I have experienced.

“You’re sure of this?” Dean asks me, gaining my attention again by squeezing my arm before finally letting go.

“Yes.” I breathe simply, failing to explain that my only other hunch was the fact that it hadn’t been bothering me or I suppose terrorizing me like the poltergeist had with its touching.

A hard determined look sharpens on Dean's face, “Well, one thing’s for damn sure –- nobody’s dyin’ in this house ever again. So whatever is here, how do we stop it?”

“We’re gonna cleanse the house” Missouri answers simply, “Y/N, what you have in that bag of yours?”

A devilish smirk stretches itself on my face, “You wanna do purifying bags?” I ask back instead of answering. I walk back over to my discarded bag picking it up and swinging it over my shoulder, “Let’s do this downstairs, don’t want to make a mess in the kids room” Missouri says, answering my question without really answering it.

“Copy” I smile, taking the lead as we exit the room. With a sudden need for my specialty I found a new pep in my step as I quickly descended the stairs beelining for the nearest table. I carefully placed my bag down on the dining room table, pulling out my spell book marked and written in along with small corked glass bottles of different roots and herbs I carry. “When did you put all of this in your bag?” Sam asks, picking up a vial of crossroad dirt.

“Before I left with Dean to come get you, ‘cause you never know when you're gonna have to put together a spell or a potion of sorts” I answer, pulling out a couple empty small brown pouches.

“So you’ve been carrying this ‘round with you this whole time?” Dean asks this time.

“Mhm” I hum as I sit getting right to work.

With a little bag in front of me I put in each ‘ingredient’, for lack of a better word, not needing to look at my book for the right amount in each.

“Well don’t be lazy, help the girl!” Missouri lectures hitting Dean on the back of the head again. He grumbles no longer snapping back with something, he sits down next to me looking for direction.

With the feeling of his gaze on the side of my face I swirl my finger towards my spell book, a purple haze floating through the air turning the pages of my book to the right section for him to follow without me having to stop my work. He doesn't say anything as he takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, putting his forearms on display as he picks up bits of root, unfortunately catching my attention enough to pause my work and stare at him.

His eyes move from my book to the bag he was working on, his eyes sharp and focus as it passes across the words on the page. He moves his hand to the book using a finger to drag across the page underneath each word, the veins in his hand bulging as he does so. His eyebrows scrunch and his jaw ticks as he asks, “What is this stuff anyway?”

“That’s angelica root your holding” I mentioned first, referring to the fuzzy green plant in his hand. “And that’s van van oil, crossroad dirt, sage” I point to each bottle, naming off each ingredient we’re using.

He nods as I speak, his eyes still holding the same level of focus. From his listening to the gentle touch he used as he handled each bottle, all I could feel was pure endearment. The sudden quietness in the room made me painfully aware of the fact that we were the only ones left in said room and that Missouri along with Sam had left at some point, most likely to talk to Jenny.

“What are we supposed to do with it?” Dean questioned, knocking his knee into mine to get my attention once more. A bashful smile breaks its way onto my face at his touch, “We put them inside the walls of each corner of each floor of the house, north, south, east, west.”

“We’ll be punchin’ holes in the dry wall. Jenny’s gonna love that.” Dean points out.

My lips formed a tight line, cringing, “Yeah…this is just how this goes but to be fair some holes in the walls are better than evil spirits.”

He huffed a laugh, “And this will destroy the spirits?”

“It should, it's supposed to purify the house completely, we’ll probably each take a floor but we do have to work quickly because when they catch on to what we’re doing, they get seriously pissed.” I answered

“Won’t they catch on with us doing it here?”

“You would think that but spirits don’t always know until it’s actually happening like when we make the holes then it’s a big deal.” I inform, tying off another bag.

“Huh” He replies as he continues to work.

Soon silence falls upon us while we work, our arms brushing against each other every now and then.

“Are holes in drywall a hard fix?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence, worried that the spirits won’t be the only pissed ones.

A deep chuckle passes through his lips, “That depends, sweetheart, but it should be.” He went on to explain the logistics of it, and while it wasn’t something I really cared to know about I didn’t stop him from explaining.

By the time his explanation of spackles and walls was over our purifying bags were done too.

Missouri and Sam walk back into the room, the floor creaking slightly underneath them. “You guys almost done?” Sam asked

“Yup” I hummed, “The bags are all done just gotta finish cleaning up”

“Good. Jenny and her kids just left, they’ll be back in an hour or two” Sam explained, placing a bunch of heavy items on the table. “I brought these in from the car, take your pick.”

I look up at the heavy mass, a hammer, a small ax, and two crowbars lay on the table. Though it is an odd collection of weapons as long as it is capable of making a hole in the wall it doesn't really matter, Sam picks up the hammer testing the weight of it in his hand.

With every part of the plan settled I throw the rest of the vials and leftover bags in my bag worrying about organization later, gently tucking my thick spell book into my bag I turn swiftly around, “Let’s get it done.”

“I’ll take this floor” Dean says, picking up his four bags, “Sammy you take upstairs, and you two can take the basement.”

“And remember you need to put a bag in each corner, north, south, east, west.” I order as everyone has the right amount of bags and a weapon of choice.

A collective nod was all we needed to spring into action, with the cold heavy crowbar in my hand I took the lead down the basement Missouri following closely after me. Without any words needed, we split up her heading to the west side of the floor and me to the east.

A chill runs up my spine, an uncomfortable feeling floating in the air, I roll my shoulders trying to rid myself of the feeling. My knees hit the floor, the coldness seeping through my pants. I knock on the wall in an attempt to hear a hollow part, Dean having mentioned before that would be the easiest way to make a hole. My knuckles hit the wall in at least ten separate spots before it no longer sounds solid. I stand back up for better leverage before changing my hold on the crowbar to be horizontal, bashing the end of it into the wall repeatedly until it cracks.

A heavy sliding noise shuffles behind me, I snap my head to the sound of a large dark table moving across the floor right into Missouri. My mouth opens to scream her name in warning but just as the first syllable leaves my mouth a nail comes flying at my face. Out of reflex alone I send the nail flying to the left, the invisible force of my power altering its trajectory. My eyes follow where the nail came from, an open red tool box, more nails come flying my way and each time I knock them away. Knowing it wouldn’t stop I gripped the crowbar harder using only a glimpse back at the wall to know where I was aiming for. While I used one hand and half my focus on changing the direction of the nails I used my other to slam the crowbars end into the already cracked wall but only when it sounded like it broke through enough did I glimpse back again. With another look forward at the coming nails, only one more left, I waited until it got closer, the old nail zooming toward my eye. Just as it got but an inch away I dropped to the floor, turning my body as I went, throwing the purification bag in.

I got up quickly, dropping my crowbar, almost tripping over my other foot as I ran to Missouri, pushing the table away from her, throwing another bag into the hole she had already made before she got attacked. She breathes heavily, a hand on her chest. “You okay?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her away from the table. She nods her head, handing me her two bags, wordlessly telling me to finish the floor.

I grip the bags in one hand as I pick up my discarded crowbar, seeing the nails that flew at me sticking out of the walls. I head over to the undisturbed wall slamming the crowbar into the wall, not even attempting to do the knocking at this point. While I threw in the third bag, worry consumed me at the realization that the spirits must be attacking the boys too. Without wasting any more time I go to the last undisturbed wall, again slamming the crowbar into it. Call it paranoia or instinct that made me turn so that my shoulder was facing the wall instead of my face to see if another attack would be coming. Either way it was that alone that saved me from the poltergeist throwing a wooden chair at my head. I duck again just in time for the chair to smash into pieces above me, wood undoubtedly falling into my hair.

“Stop throwing stuff!” I yell at the air itself or really the incredibly annoying poltergeist. With a huff I throw in the last bag, all the activity silencing on this floor. I get up walking over to Missouri as I pick out chunks of wood from my hair, as soon as I get close enough she reaches up and takes a particularly large piece of chair out of my hair showing it to me with a laugh before tossing it somewhere on the floor.

“Y/N!” A voice yells with a strain, clearly coming from a distance away. Right away I recognize the voice, Deans, I go running climbing up the stairs two at a time. Forget about my hair, forget about leaving Missouri behind (no offense).

The ground floor is practically untouched other than the clear mess that is peeking out from the kitchen, I look around quickly and see no one, “Dean?!” I shout back evident fear in my voice, getting an immediate “Up here.” Slight relief hits me as I again sprint up the stairs, twirling around the banister the second I reach the second floor seeing the closest open door. Forgetting about precautions I immediately approach the door, my hand on the archway when I see Dean on the floor cradling a hurt-limp Sam.

“Wha-“ I begin saying only to lose my train of thought.

“Let’s get him up” Missouri suddenly says from behind me, very calmly. She nudges past me heading straight for the boys, but neither of them move. She leans down beside Sam pressing two fingers to the side of his neck, “He’s still alive, he’ll be just fine.”

He gives her a curt nod before leaning back on his feet and standing, dragging his brother up with him, just as he does so Sam comes to. His eyes fluttering open and close, “It’s okay Sammy, just gonna bring you downstairs” Dean tells him, putting his brother's arm around his shoulder.

Carefully he walks his brother downstairs, Sam grumbling something halfway through before going limp again. Finally they reach the living room, Dean carefully lays his brother on the couch then moves to sit on the coffee table right across from him.

“He’ll be alright” I say softly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.

“I know” he replies.

“Were you able to finish the floor?” I ask even though maybe it wasn’t the proper time to.

“No. I was hurled with knives the second I made the hole, then I heard something upstairs and ran to see if Sammy was okay…I don’t think he finished either” He explains, his eyebrows scrunched together.

“It’s okay, i’ll go finish it and you guys can stay here, watch over him” I say, giving his shoulder a little squeeze before moving my hand away.

“Are you crazy?! That’s dangerous. Did you not just see what happened to Sam?!” Dean shoots back, not quite yelling but his voice is definitely louder than needed.

I smiled at him sweetly knowing this was coming from a place of worry and not an incompetent sort of deal, “Don’t worry I can take care of myself just fine, I did so down stairs when we finished up. Got some nails thrown at me, a chair and a table, you know just the usual playing house with the ghost.”

“That’s not the point. I’m coming with you.” He stands up abruptly and I swear I saw his jaw tick.

“Okay. I’m not gonna argue with you” I respond with humor in my voice. “But. If you did want to stay behind to watch your brother I wouldn't fault you for it either.”

He looks at me strangely with those beautiful green eyes before diverting them just past me, “I’m coming with you.”

“Right.” I smile “‘You got the bags?”

He answers by shuffling through his jacket pockets and pulling out a bag from each, he holds them up in an almost teasing way. I take a half step forward, grabbing a bag right out of his hand, only then realizing how close my small step puts us, having to lean my head back far enough to look up at him comfortably. But I don’t move away as I ask him, “What about your axe?”

He tilts his head down slightly towards me, his breathe hot on my face, “Dropped it in the kitchen”

“Good.” I say, nearly and pathetically getting distracted by our closeness…and his eyes… and his lips. “ ‘Cause I have no idea where I left that crowbar”

He laughs and steps away, his shoulder brushing mine as he walks away to the kitchen. Before I can turn to follow him Missouri meets my eyes, giving me a pointed-knowing look about what just happened. ‘Shut up’ I playfully mouth.

Finally I turn around following after the man in question. He comes out of the kitchen holding the small axe but just behind him is a mess. The kitchen looks like a tornado went through it with draws and cabinets open, utensils on the floor, broken dishes scattered around, the table turned over with knives sticking out of it (a tornado could not do that but the point of the mess still stands.) I look back at Dean then behind him repeatedly, “Did you have fun?” I remark sarcastically.

“Oh, not as much fun as you had” He replies gruffly, reaching up to my hair, his fingers sinking in as he ruffles out small chips of wood. My cheeks feel warm at the small contact and even more so when he pulls away and gives me that smirk. Then he walks away towards the back of the house with a cocky look in his eye like he knew exactly what he had done. I take a short deep breath before following him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later every purifying bag is put in place and Sammy is conscious and now we stand in the disaster that is the kitchen, broken cabinets and chair bits on the floor as well as a collection of utensils, all just to see the bunt of the fight.

“‘You sure this is over?” Sam questions, his voice a little rough.

“I’m sure. Why? Why do you ask?” Missouri answers.

“Never mind.” He sighs, “It’s nothin’, I guess.”

The front door opens followed by footsteps, “Hello? We’re home.” Jenny calls out before finding us in the kitchen pure shock written on her face, “What happened?”

“Hi, sorry. Um, we’ll pay for all of this.” Sam word vomits, the words spilling out quickly and anxiously. Both Dean and I’s heads snap towards him, I seriously want to ask him ‘with what money???’ But before anyone can fathom a word Missouri beat us to it, “Don’t you worry. Dean’s gonna clean up this mess.” Again with her (maybe) uncalled targeting I have to bite back a smirk, meanwhile Dean stands unmoving his eyebrows scrunched looking at the shorter woman with a total bewildered expression.

“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get the mop.” She adds, and I don’t know how she has this much power but he listens and begins to walk away or really shuffle away, “And don’t cuss at me!” She lectures.

Laughter slips through my lips as he mutters under his breath, Sam joining in on the hilarious nature that is his brother being bossed around.

Wiping a tear out of the corner of my eye I touch Sam’s shoulder, “I’m gonna go get him and fix this up…” I twirl my finger slightly to signal I mean magically, “Bring Jenny inside somewhere.” He nods, “Okay but you should really let him suffer”

I laugh again, rolling my eyes as I move away.

I find Dean standing in front of a broom closet trying to balance several cleaning objects in his hands at once. I admire his effort but there’s just no way anyone could clean that kitchen when it’s quite literally just destroyed. I grabbed a broom from him that was seconds away from falling, “Not to ruin your fun but I figured it would be easier to use magic on the kitchen than a mop.”

“Thank god” He sighs, shoving everything back in the closet including the broom I held.

Back in the kitchen I try not to get stressed at just how bad it is. Taking a calming breath I walk over to the kitchen counters, closing my eyes, I feel my hair move around me slightly from a small drift in the room, my body stands completely still as I let my hands feel the cool counter below me and the steadiness of it all. As my body relaxes and my shoulders drop, relieving its tension I become a conduit for magic, a dance of ethereal threads weaving through me. The energy flowed from my core to my fingertips, the flow gracefully extending to every nook and cranny. As if tracing an intricate pattern, it embraced the room, coaxing broken shards and scattered pieces back into harmony. The air felt electric with the essence of restoration, and the kitchen hummed with the soothing melody of enchantment.

When I open my eyes again, I feel a gaze on me. I turn my whole body, so that I was standing sideways, to it and of course it’s Dean, he meets my eyes, his mouth just slightly agape and I can only imagine what the swirling of purple energy around the room fixing items must have looked like. His green eyes are slightly glossy with what is maybe curiousity or amazement, either way it was a weird look. Before I could question him I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a tall familiar figure. Sam stands by the kitchen archway waving his hand, signaling it was time to go.

Hours later darkness consumes the Impala. After dropping Missouri back home Sam insisted we came back to the house for a stakeout. It was hard to argue with someone who had a bad feeling over something that is quite literally life or death, so we stayed. We’d been in here so long in fact that I’d taken to lying down flat in the backseat, my legs propped up on the seats (shoes off so Dean wouldn’t complain but at least I got to showcase my cute dragonfly socks).

I stare up at the beige-ish interior roof, my hands laying across my chest. I breathe in and out evenly, but with the prospect of being bored, memories of my life here swarm my head and suddenly I miss my mom more than I've had in a long time. If I focus hard enough on the roof I can still hear the remnants of her laughter and I could see her smile, the one I inherited, on her soft face. That old longing, that old sadness that I thought I was over fills my heart, its hands creep up on it clasping it tightly. It’s been years. So many years since she’s been gone and yet still this feeling—this rawness in my chest, this endless longing is home in my body just as it was the first time around.

I miss my mom.

I want to cry and I want her back, tears threaten my eyes and that stupid tightness in my throat prevails almost like it’s choking me, a tightness that’s so painful I want to rip my throat out. I swallow forcefully, I hate this feeling and I hate death and I hate that I'm feeling this in the back of the car with my best friends just right up front. It’s too vulnerable, it’s too open, too close to home…I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I shut my eyes tightly trying to erase these feelings to move them back in the dusty box they had sat in. But it isn’t that easy and I know it isn’t so instead I breathe deeply and choose to listen to Dean and Sam talk, focusing on the up and down of their words and the softness of each syllable.

“All right, so, tell me again, what are we still doin’ here?” Dean asks, impatience clear on his tongue.

“I don’t know. I just…” Sam sighs, “…still have a bad feeling.”

“Why? Missouri did her whole Zelda Rubenstein thing, the house should be clean, it should be over.” Dean explains.

“Yeah, well, probably. But I just wanna make sure, that’s all.” Sam answers.

“Yeah, well, problem is I could be sleeping in a bed right now.” Dean responds and I hear him slide down his seat, probably closing his eyes in the process, “Like Y/N back there” he adds, softer, and even with my eyes closed a smile produces itself on my face. The small warmth that spreads in my chest fends off the grief, at least enough for it not to be at the forefront of my mind.

The quiet peace that falls over the Impala is short lived, Sam suddenly yelling, “Guys. Look” My eyes shoot open, “Dean!” He hits his brother's shoulder.

I sit up quickly catching a glimpse of Jenny yelling by her window, with nothing more to be said- we jump out of the car. I shuffled to the car door, leaving my shoes behind, the second I’m out and the door is slammed shut I run after the boys who were only two paces ahead. “You two grab the kids, I’ll get Jenny.” Dean commands as Sam tries the door which of course is locked. Dean pushes him slightly to the side, he takes a step back lifting his leg and kicking in the door. Broken pieces of wood stick out from the side of it.

The dark wooden floors are cold beneath my sock-covered feet, each step up the staircase seems far too long even as we reach the top. At the top Dean stops at a door close to the stairs but I don’t use any more focus to take anything else as Sam and I run down the hall, “Get Sari! I’ll get the baby!” I yell after him. Stopping at the closest door I swing it open only to reveal a bathroom, I curse underneath my breath before spinning around to the door right across the hall. Once more I swing it open, this time revealing a baby room with a white crib in the middle of it. I rush over only slowing to not scare Richie as I approach, somehow he’s still asleep wrapped up in his little blanket.

Carefully I reach in the crib scooping him up from underneath his upper back, my other arm going for his legs. Once in my arms I rearrange him so my dominant hand rests on his lower back while the crook of my other arm cradles his little head, just like holding a baby doll except this one is way cuter and also very alive. Standing back at my full height I fix his blanket around him before exiting the room. I know Sam can handle himself so I head towards the stairs, the baby had to be the priority right now. I quickly descend the stairs, only half way down when I feel Sam close behind, a relief hitting me.

My feet only just hit the ground level when Sam calls my name, swiftly I turn towards him Sari in his arms.

“Y/N, you need to take the kids and go outside.” He orders, placing Sari on the floor.

“Okay, what about you aren’t you coming?” I rushed out, cradling Richie in one arm so I could take hold of Sari’s hand.

Panic is written all over his face and something else lies in his eyes, “Take them. Don’t look back” And before I can argue any further he’s nudging me forward, reluctantly I go only because I know I can’t help with two kids in my arms. I run towards the door at this point, pulling Sari along with me, just behind me I hear a slam to the floor and I know it’s Sam- relief gone. But even so I rush forward.

The chill breeze of the night hits me hard. Jenny and Dean stand on the edge of the grass line. Only a few paces from them Sari lets go of my hand and runs to her mom, Jenny leaning down to catch her and hold her tightly. “Sam’s inside you have to go now” I speak quickly, my words jumbling over itself. Dean's eyes widen and pure fear fills them, on top of being scared guilt fills me now too. He runs to the front door and I hear it slam loudly. I hand Richie back over to his mom who is very obviously relieved to have him again.

Dean runs back to the Impala pulling out a shotgun and an ax, going right back to the door. I know I could open the door for him, it would be easy and I wouldn’t even break a sweat. Yet, my feet remain planted to the grown, the chaos of it all—the guilt. My purifying bags didn’t work, it nearly got a whole family killed and Sam’s now in trouble too. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.

My feet won’t move, my body won’t react, I can't even redeem myself. I don’t want to lose anyone else, I don’t want to. I can’t.

Move.

Move. Please move, I beg myself— my very being to do something anything but be helpless. I hate being helpless and yet I’m here doing nothing, anxiety and fear encasing me to this spot. I hear Dean hacking away at the door, faint grunts leaving his mouth as he does so but still I can’t move. Sari begins to cry latching on to her moms legs only waking up Ritchie in the process who then begins to cry too. The loud crying rings in my ears, only making my heart beat faster.

Jenny, visibly overwhelmed, wrestles with the challenge of consoling both kids, her distress mirrored in her eyes. Without conscious thought, my arms extend, offering to hold Ritchie. To my surprise, she entrusts the baby to me, planting a tender kiss on his forehead before gathering Sari into her embrace. Sari's legs encircle her mother's waist, a protective hand cradling the back of her head.

Richie moving in my arms breaks me out of my panic, if only because someone in need was right there, someone who surely couldn’t help themselves. I begin to rock him, moving my weight from one foot to another but my stress and worry is still there and he must feel it too because it does barely anything to help. I look back up, Dean is still hacking away at the door, not enough progress has been made. I rearrange the baby, using my free arm I lift up a hand my palm facing towards the direction of the door, with barely any thought needed the door slams open. Dean looks back at me for only a second before running in.

Richie's cries persist as I rock him, murmuring reassurances, "It's okay, everything will be okay." I desperately rack my mind for any calming measures, when I suddenly recall my mother singing me lullabies. But still I struggle to remember any of them, the memory too distant to be anything more than a hymn, instead I decide to softly sing "A Lullaby" by Dear Nora – even though it came out way after my mothers passing it always reminded me of her. And I had always kept a small hope that one day if I were to have kids that I would sing it to them too.

As I move a strand of hair from Richie's face, he begins to settle. My voice trembles with fear, but it seems to have a soothing effect anyways. Richie stops crying, and I meet Jenny's gaze. She offers a sad smile while holding her daughter close.

Both boys came out of that house. Relief had hit me like a ton of bricks, my knees felt wobbly with it. At first they could barely speak, shocked at what they saw but then the police and firefighters came and it was all the usual.

It was hours later until everything was resolved, and it wasn’t until Missouri came over that they actually spilt what happened. Their mom was there, she was the good spirit that I had felt, the one that was fighting off the evil and she did exactly that when it had attacked Sam. Somehow, she was still at the house after all these years protecting it. She had used the last of her abilities to say…sorry.

It’s morning now, Missouri cleared the house for real this time no spirit was left in there. The kids were sleeping still, Jenny was giving the photos she found to Dean and Sam sat with Missouri on the steps talking.

I had nothing to say to anyone in particular so I sat in the Impala, my legs outside the car, digging through my bag, when I finally pulled out my spell book I turned to the purifying page, I looked it over again trying to see if we did something wrong and messed up the amounts. But no. We did it right, but for some reason it didn’t work—it didn’t work and people could have died. Holding the book on my lap I reach up to the top of it, my hand holding the single page ready to tear it out when it’s suddenly taken from my grasp “Hey, what are you doing?!” Dean yells, holding it out of reach.

“It didn’t work. It needs to go, please give it back.” I answered, my jaw clenched.

“This was your moms, you’d hate yourself if you ripped it up.” Dean lectures.

“No I wouldn't, give it back. I need to make sure this never happens again.” I shoot up from my seat reaching up to grab it back but his arm shoots down behind his back.

“Yeah, you would. Sorry to break it to you sweetheart but I know you pretty damn well.”

I don’t care if he’s right. I don’t. That page needs to go, I can’t make this mistake again. I won’t. I reach for it again behind his back but again he moves it, “Dean. I’m not joking around give it back.” I don’t often get angry, but I am.

He looks down at me, his eyes scrunched in confusion and concern, “What’s going on with you?”

I huff, frustrated, “What’s going on is I messed up. Badly. They could have died and don’t try to say I don’t know that for sure because I do. And I know you do too, so I don’t need any comforting lies”

"We screw up, sweetheart. It's part of the gig. But we fixed it. They're alive and kickin', okay?" His words carried that gruff reassurance he always had, even when he was being a bit of a hypocrite. Book at his side, guard lowered just a bit, it was my chance to snag it back. "Not this," I jabbed a finger at the book. "I'm good at this. I don't mess up on this."

"I don't care that you're all emotional right now. You're not trashing your spell book." Arms crossed in front of his chest, he held his ground.

My chest heaved, my eyes scrunched in frustration as I looked up at him, my free hand in a tight fist my nails digging into my palm. “But, it needs to—“ I say back, weakly, already my fight was crumbling, being replaced with something else. Suddenly his arms were around me and my face was buried in his chest. His arms held my upper back tightly, his hands going up to cup my head, his fingers entangled into my hair a little while his chin rested on top of my head. With each breath I took, inhaling his smell of something woody and some sort of spice mixed into one, any resolve I had left was gone.

I wanted to keep fighting, I wanted to tell him he was wrong but he held me so close and so gentle that I couldn’t. If that in itself had made me weak then so be it. I wrap my arms around his center, even with my book in my hand. It had to be seconds later when he must have felt the tension leaving my shoulders when he pulled away, his hands dropped down to the crook of my arm holding me a short distance away. His green eyes locked with mine in a silent agreement.

I pull away fully when Sam and Missouri approach, quickly whipping my eyes just in case and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. We each exchange hugs with her, even Dean who surprisingly gets no comment this time.

Missouri smiles, “Don’t you be strangers.”

“We won’t.” Dean nods as he rounds the car.

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bigmouthlass · 10 days

Text

Title: Finding The Groove

Series: Holler Me Home, part 6

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: A case gone strange . . . stranger than usual, and Alpha Dean and Omega You learn some difficult things about each other in the process.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Arthur Ketch, OMC, OFC, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha Arthur Ketch, Beta OMC, Beta OFC, Torture, Hallucinations, Drug Use, Backstory

AN: DOPE is Data On Previous Engagements. Apologies to Ohio State fans; this You is a Michigander to her fingernails and there are certain requirements. Cheer for the Lions no matter how much it hurts, talk smack about out-of-state drivers, and loathe the Ohio State Buckeyes with every fiber of your being. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

You take a deep breath in and let it out, slowly. Smooth and still, those are the name of the game. Windage nil, temperature 7.2 degrees Centigrade, stationary target, you're lying in the prone position with your TAC 50 socked into your shoulder. A voice recorder sits on the ground next to your DOPE book. "Test firing custom-tooled silver rounds, 500 meters."

The rifle kicks into your shoulder, one-two-three. Three holes appear in the target. You shake your head. "Shitty grouping."

"Better than mine," Dean notes. He's seated Indian style next to you, examining the target through a set of binoculars.

"That's because all your engagements happen at pistol distance," you say. "You and Sam need to make it to the rifle range more often."

You uncap a pen with your teeth and record the shots. Out comes the magazine. Dean hands you another one, loaded with standard copper-jacketed ammunition. "Yeah, freezing my balls off in a snowbank-- good times."

"I can say from firsthand observation," you say, stretching back into position, "your balls will be fine. Control firing standard rounds, 500 meters."

These shots are better. Not great, but better. You sigh. "Still need more practice."

"What're you kidding? You're a fucking surgeon with that thing," Dean says.

"How well and sincerely you lie," you say. "And we're still not sure if angel blade bullets would even work. Cas said they were disabling and hurt like hell but it didn't kill him."

"Hey, I'll take hurt like hell," Dean says.

"True, it's an improvement," you say, "but the only source of the material is angel blades. I know we got half a dozen kicking around the bunker, but melting them down into bullets would be a waste of the material unless we could get kill shots. And the only way to get good experimental data on whether or not they'd work for that is in the field. Firing standard rounds, 500 meters." Three more shots, about the same grouping. "Shit."

"I'd be fine with that," Dean says. "You're a dead shot."

"Friendly fire casualties happen Dean." You write down the data on the shots with standard match-quality rounds. "I'm not willing to risk hurting your or Sam. Or Cas, neither. Especially if I'm using the Big Bad Motherfucker."

"Point taken." The Big Bad Motherfucker is your Barrett .50 caliber anti-material rifle. It's designed for use on armored targets. You'll admit, a big part of you wants to machine some .50 bullets out of angel blade metal and see the results.

"If we could get our hands on a reliable source of angel blade metal," you muse out loud, "I'd love to make some frag grenades out of the stuff.”

"Grenade launcher with angel grenades," Dean picks up your idea and runs with it. "Awesome."

"The fun of being our own weaponeers. One of the reasons we have the best job ever," you smile. "Standard ammunition, 500 yards." One-two-three. This grouping's better.

---

Dean's quiet as you head back to the RV. He settles into the navigator's seat, cupping his hands around the Is There Life Before Coffee? mug you got him for Christmas. “What’s on your mind, Winchester?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he says. He lifts a hand and makes a fist. “My hands ache.”

“Dude, you’ve broken your fingers how many times?” you ask. “My hands hurt in cold weather too. Getting old sucks.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You really think we got the best job ever?”

“It has its upsides,” you shrug.

“Yeah but . . .” Dean hands you your keys and you start the RV. “You don’t ever wish you could do something else?”

“What, be normal? No.” Carefully you guide the RV out of the parking lot and up onto some two-lane blacktop.

“Normal isn’t so bad. Hell I lived normal for most of a year.”

“Way I heard it,” you say, “you spent most of that year up to your eyebrows in lore trying to figure out a way to jailbreak the Cage. And I bet you weren’t exactly sober for most of it.”

“Yeah, maybe I should’ve appreciated it better. Instead my best friend’s a fallen angel who likes Cookie Crunch cereal and my girlfriend’s a bigger badass than me.”

“And that’s bad?” you ask. “Dean, ‘normal’ for most Omegas is living paycheck to paycheck with a dozen pups trying to make not enough money and not enough love stretch to cover everything. And being normal wouldn’t magically protect us from anything.” You shrug. “Maybe I’m the wrong person to ask. I wanted to be a goddamned Marine.” Replaying Dean’s last sentence, you say, “You really think I’m a bigger badass than you?”

“Well yeah,” Dean smiles. “You picked the life, and you’re good at it. Really good.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush,” you smile back. “And I didn’t pick the life, exactly. I just kind of lucked into it. I’ve been lucky too-- the bad guys haven’t considered me enough of a bother to go after my folks.” You think of the last letter you got from Janey, gushing with news of your nieces. “I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.”

That's a lie. You do know. God willing, Dean never will.

---

“Hey. How’d the test firing go?” Sam asks as you and Dean clamber down the curved bunker stars.

“’Hi Sam, did you miss us?’ ‘Yes, absolutely, the bunker’s been so empty without you,’” you move into Sam’s arms and lay your head on his chest, fluttering your eyelashes up at him.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, uh . . . got something that might be a case." He turns and your attention falls to his open laptop. "Mickey Albrecht, died a couple days ago, but get this-- he was found with a puncture wound behind his left ear and his brain was quote-unquote ‘raisined into a mass the size of a wadded-up Kleenex.’”

"That's . . . descriptive,” Dean notes.

“Sounds like a wraith Shriveled brain,” you say.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He makes a face. “Just got home too.”

“Let me go get my other duffel, I haven’t had a chance to do laundry,” you say.

“Sure. Roll out in twenty,” Dean says.

“Ten-four.” You’re halfway down the hall, the boys trailing you on the way to their rooms, when your phone starts droning the theme from M*A*S*H. “Shit.”

About ninety seconds later, you disconnect and look up into two worried faces. “I’m sorry guys, I gotta be in Columbus tomorrow afternoon. Looks like you two’re a duet on this one.”

“Shit. That was the doctor’s office again wasn’t it?” Dean asks.

“Yeah. And I’ve already rescheduled twice.” At Sam’s blank look you explain about the study, and about how the clause in your contract with them was your ace-in-the-hole in case of emergency. “It’s why I’m so careful about not getting picked up by the cops-- the college agreed to pay all my medical expenses, which includes shit like getting my ass beat by poltergeists.”

“How do you explain all those injuries?” Sam asks.

“Car wrecks, muggings, stray dog packs. The truth, very occasionally. There’s only so many times ER docs working the night shift can hear the same stories about animal attacks before they start putting things together. It’s practically an open secret in Miami-Dade Medical Center and in New Orleans. Vamps and ghouls love swamp country.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He smiles. “Even thought about homebasing there for a while. There’s plenty of work, good food, friendly women--"

That gets him a smack upside the head.

---

You park your “borrowed” Honda in the garage next to the generic office cube in downtown Columbus, feeling the usual prickly dread down in your belly. A look at the snow-silver clouds and you sigh. God you hate Columbus. On top of everything else, a Michigander should not be anywhere near the heartland of the fucking Buckeyes. Your aunt, rest in peace wrapped in her U of M flag, must be turning in her grave. You hit the button for the eighth floor without even looking. With the clinical trial reduced to collecting follow-up information, what once took two floors now takes a wing, secured behind a door labeled SECONDARY SEX RESEARCH CLINIC.

The psychologist grad student who usually gets stuck working reception's not at the desk. "Long time no see," sneers Scott, the Omega RN they have on staff for male Omega patients. He loathes you, and he isn't discreet about it either.

You cuss to yourself. "Hi Scott. Where's Shelley?"

"She graduated. Care to explain why you rescheduled your appointment twice?"

"Not to you I don't." Not to anybody you don't, you think. You're pretty sure that at the time of your last appointment, you were in a bathtub with Dean doing things that did not involve washing. Things that, come to think of it, made the whole bathing part of bathing rather moot. God knows Dean’s language had been filthy.

Your mind skips back to Dean’s remarks about a normal life. You know he didn't mean it that way, but you can’t help but feel a little . . . cheap. Dean’s little black book’s about the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica and you are, by far, not the most attractive entry. A disproportionally hot boyfriend; it’s enough to make a girl feel a little insecure. Like he wanted the cute -- what had she been, a fitness instructor? -- and the little boy and the beautiful house and the career with benefits. Instead he got the job and the Apocalypses (Apocali? Apocalypti?) and living with his kid brother and the world's worst Omega who could pass for a dude in dim lighting--

A rap of a knuckle on drywall breaks you out of your woolgathering. “Hey!” Scott snaps the clasp on the clipboard. “If you’re done daydreaming some of us work for a living.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You pull your worn ID card from your pocket and wave it over the door sensor. The lock on the inner door buzzes and you go through to the nurse's station, hanging up your jacket and stepping on the scale.

---

Dr. Jon -- the MD in charge of the study, a tall fellow with sleepy eyes and hair that's shading from iron to salt'n'pepper -- shuts the exam room door behind him, greeting you with a smile. But before you can get out much more than hello, he comes in close. "Holy moley. Has it finally happened?"

"Huh?"

He takes a sniff and you do your best to relax. Dr. Jon's a Beta and his faint scent is neutral. Everybody's born with pheromone glands and scenting organs. Alpha and Omega scenting organs keep growing and developing throughout your lives. Beta organs don't. Their scenting abilities disappear when they're kids and the organs themselves go dormant after adolescence. For some reason Dr. Jon's scenting ability developed instead of fading away. His nose is more sensitive than yours.

He grins, singsonging, "I smell Alpha on you." Your face gets hot and you avoid Dr. Jon's gaze. "Happy Alpha too," he adds, huffing through his nose. "But--" his fingertips pull the neckline of your exam gown to the side, revealing your unmarked neck.

"We just haven't gotten around to it," you try to brush off.

"Kiddo," Dr. Jon says, sitting on his rolly-stool and flipping back the cover on your chart, "there are three people in life you never lie to--"

"Your preacher, your lawyer, and your doctor," you finish the line with him.

"Right. So don't keep me in suspense. Who's the lucky Alpha? Wait-- is that why you kept rescheduling?"

You sigh. Guilty as charged.

"You know I'm not in the judgement business. Neither is anyone else here. And we need your follow-ups."

"Why? The drugs didn't get past approval," you snap.

"We didn't think it would," Dr. Jon says, exasperated. "There's another compound starting trials next year. That's how science works. I explained that to you at the first interview. Now quit trying to change the subject."

"Was there a subject?"

"Knock it off. According to this," he does that speed-reading thing, "since you met Mister and/or Miss Right, your cycle's settled down and is behaving more or less normally. That's not just good news. That's significant data. Whoever they are, you're very compatible."

"Dean says we're true mates," you say, and wish you hadn't.

"I'd have to see the two of you together before I have an opinion on that," Dr. Jon says. "Don't suppose he'd consent to--"

"No!" Dr. Jon raises an eyebrow at you but you clam up. He's entitled to know a lot about you -- not even Dean knows your body that intimately -- but telling him about Dean would mean opening up about Hunting, and Dr. Jon's also entitled to his illusion of safety.

Sighing, he sets your chart aside and pushes the call button for Kanika. You turn to lay flat on the table, and even after all this time you still flinch when you hear Dr. Jon slide out the stirrups.

---

Dr. Jon meets you at the checkout desk. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

The fact that you struggle to say no to male authority figures who show you even a scrap of affection is a weakness you should probably meditate on someday. For now you follow Dr. Jon past the exam rooms and into a dark cave of an office. You nod at the mahogany and leather decor, noting Dr. Jon's forgone the Ego Wall in favor of landscape paintings. There's a portrait of his wife in a brilliant blue sari hung on one wall, a garland of flowers in her dark hair. Small and cozy, not what one might expect from one of the leading experts on secondary sex presentation.

Dr. Jon sits behind his desk, waving you to one of the chairs. Through your apology for the reschedules he just looks at you, his expression unreadable. You sigh. "What did you want to talk to me about? I'd kinda like to get started on my usual post-pelvic blackout."

"I took a minute and pulled your old charts," he says, pointing to a stack of boxes on the credenza behind him. "Since your first exam, you've presented with--" he consults a pad, "broken arm twice, broken wrist once, broken leg three times, bruised and/or cracked ribs six times, concussion once, broken fingers four times, scars that look an awful lot like leftovers from animal attacks, and three gunshot wounds you won't admit to."

"What's your point?" you ask a bit coldly, tamping down hard on a wave of terror in your belly.

"Just data," he says. "Spread out over twelve years. Now if you were a basketball player, I'd expect you to present with sprained fingers and wrists on a regular basis. If you ran I'd expect bone spurs, if you were a cook I'd expect cuts and burns. But all these injuries don't add up to anything. Nobody's this accident-prone, kiddo."

"Still not seeing a point."

Dr. Jon just looks at you for a minute. "What's with the tattoo? That's new."

"Oh, um--" shit, you don't have a cover story prepped for this, the anti-possession stamp over your hip. "It's Wiccan. Luck charm."

"Uh-huh. Nice Methodist girl meets an Alpha and suddenly she's skipping appointments and getting inked with pagan charms? It’s fresh, too. Maybe a few weeks old.”

You spread your hands. "What do you want me to say? I've already apologized, like, twice."

"When I went through my pathology unit," Dr. Jon says, switching tacks, "the professor and I got to be good friends. He passed away last year. Lincoln Turner, good guy. I ran into him one night at a bar when I was teaching an in-service in Boston."

"Bombed?"

"Blasted. When I got him home he showed me something," he opens a desk drawer. Your mouth drops open when he pulls out a long, shining, triangular-bladed--

"Jesus wept. Where did he get this?" you demand, all the blood in your body pulling to your midsection. Spots fly across your vision, for just a second you think you might faint.

"Said it was found with a body. Stab wound through the third and fourth ribs on the right side of the spinal column matched the blade. 'Damndest thing,' he said to me, 'the body was burned from the inside out.' Then he told me the ghost stories he liked to tell in class were real. 'How you tell a real M.E,' he said, 'is find where they keep their stake.' Then he mumbled something about his dick brother being right all the time and passed out. When he died most of his estate went to his kids, except this. This he left to me. But I'll be damned if I know what it is or what to do with it."

Your mind makes a connection and you blurt, "His brother's name wasn't Rufus was it?"

"I don't know-- I think so." His eyes on you are sharp, but there's a pity there that makes you want to cry. Or hit him. Coin toss. "That wasn't a pit bull that put all those bites on your right leg was it?"

Looking at the angel blade laid out across Dr. Jon's desk, you make a decision and shake your head. "They're called Black Dogs. Spirit hounds summoned for revenge." You mime a claw swipe over your flank. "Werewolf." Tap your bicep. "Harpy talons." Point to your back. "Ghoul bite." Pat your thigh. "Stained glass window. The bruised ribs are from a ghost throwing me against a mausoleum wall a couple of weeks ago."

"Holy shit. The pellet marks in your other leg?"

"Not pellets, rocksalt. Peg was aiming for a poltergeist. I dived the wrong way."

"A poltergeist," Dr. Jon echoes. You can see it in his eyes, the scale tipping towards I Am Speaking To A Crazy Person.

You rack your brain a moment. “You have access to the records if I get admitted to the hospital anywhere, correct?”

“Yeah . . .” Dr. Jon says.

You give the date, when you spent two weeks in a coma healing from a skull fracture. “I was hunting a thing called a balan-balan-- it's a sickness monster that feeds on infants. It," you hit yourself in the middle of the chest, "hit me hard enough to smack me into a set of metal shelves. Cracked my sternum and my skull. Lucky it happened in a hospital or," you cut yourself off. "Remember at the time I told you it was a car accident?"

Dr. Jon doesn't say anything for a long moment. "This is insane. You know that, right?"

"Insanity doesn't leave scars. Not like this." You point behind your right ear, at the thin line of scar tissue lined with tiny holes, the remains of the surgery done to set your skull back together. "The shelf hit me right," you gently hit the side of your head with the blade of your hand, "here. Still got the bitch thought. No more crib death at that hospital."

"Holy shit." Dr. Jon goes pale as his gaze goes inward. "Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver. There was this sudden rash of SIDS cases. The CDC was about to send a team there to see if there was something like Legionnaire's disease going through the building. But then the deaths just . . . stopped." He stares. "You're telling me that . . . Jesus Christ this is crazy." He turns away from you. "This totally fucks up my experimental data. Undiagnosed paranoid delusions-- when's the last time you had a psych eval? No wait, you probably lied through your teeth to get past the first one. Do you have a family history of delusional disorders? Shit-- you probably don't even know, you said your mother was adopted."

Dammit. Judging by the thousand yard stare, your plan to clue Dr. Jon in as to the true nature of the world and your place in it has backfired.

Spectacularly.

---

"Ya think?"

You glare out at the thickening snowfall. Winter wonderlands are a lot more fun when you're not stuck driving through them. "He cornered me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Gee I dunno-- lie? Was lying an option?"

"For twelve straight years I've done nothing but lie to him. Sooner or later he was bound to put everything together." Thanks to occasional access to angel healing Dean and Sam don't look nearly as beat-up as they should. On the outside at least. "Look, it was a gamble and it busted. It happens. Now will you please get off my tits about it?"

"For the-- Maybe you forgot but it's not paranoia if everyone really is out to get you."

You shoot an apologetic smile at the security guard as you walk out of the building. "You're not seriously still annoyed you and Sam haven't shown back up on Homeland Security's Want Your Ass List are you? That's a good thing, Dean!"

"What're you talking about? I'm not annoyed about that!”

"You totally are! Sam--" you raise your voice, opening the Honda’s door and plonking yourself behind the wheel, "is he doing that flinch thing he does when he's lying?"

"I do not do a flinch thing when I'm lying!"

"Um . . ." bless Sam, he's trying to be tactful.

"So how did the case go? Was I right about it being a wraith?" you ask over Dean's cussing.

"Yep," Sam confirms. "Done and dusted-- he was hanging around this halfway house for recovering alcoholics. Said he'd gotten a taste for wet brains."

"Bastard," you say. "Meet you guys back at the bunker?"

"No no, sit tight, we're on our way to you. There's a case in Buckeye Lake, just outside Columbus. Three people dead, all missing body parts-- one of the bodies is missing eyes, heart and a bunch of muscle tissue, one's missing the kidneys, one's missing the liver and the pancreas . . ."

"How To Make A Monster, Baby?" you ask, a snatch of the Rob Zombie song curling through your memory.

"Seems that way. We haven't been able to find anything in common between the victims. Different genders, different ethnicities, different ages. And if they were victims of opportunity we haven't been able to figure out what opportunity. You got your laptop with you?"

"Yeah, shoot me what you got. Meet me at a joint name of One Line Coffee."

---

Dean sets the coffee down in front of you and Sam. "For the record I did not agree to this," he pokes at your mug, "free-trade guilt-free ten-times-the-price crap when we made that bet."

"Relax, kemo sabe, the bet expired." You hand him a twenty. "Keep the fucking change."

"All right, all right, don't get your panties in a bunch. What're we looking at here?"

"Another body dropped," you say, turning your laptop so the boys can see. "Tamikko Hoyt. Missing most of her intestinal tract, from the duodenum on down. Whoever this fucker is they don't mind getting dirty."

"Puts some weight behind the monster-making theory," Sam says.

"Yeah but the Stynes are history," Dean says. His face goes tight with an expression you don't like.

"Doesn't mean there isn't anyone reading out of the same playbook," Sam says.

"Um . . ." you say, "this must be an adventure I missed. Catch me up?"

"Yeah, sorry," Sam says, pulling your laptop around and spending several minutes accessing the Men of Letters online database. "Couple years ago we tripped over the Styne family, aka,” he turns your laptop back around, “the Frankensteins."

"You are shitting me!" you exclaim, earning you some dirty looks from the cafe's other patrons.

"Wish we were," Dean says. "Believe me."

“So the Mary Shelley book--”

“Lightly fictionalized,” Sam says. “The Stynes were into hardcore body modification-- replacing worn out or damaged parts, engineering redundant organ systems."

“Yeah but they’re not the only ones.” If anything, Dean’s face goes even grimmer. “Remember that doctor guy who managed to come up with an immortality potion?”

You stare at the boys. “Gee, suddenly my adventures with wendigos look downright fucking tame. Anyway, if we’re thinking these Stynes are the players here--”

“They’re not.” You don't like the look on Dean's face, and you like his tone even less. “They’re all dead.”

---

"Bingo!"

"What? What?" Sam asks, running a towel over his freshly showered hair. You drew the short straw so you go last. After your boyfriend drains the hot water like he always does.

“Okay, the vics have nothing in common, right?” you say. “Except . . .” you can’t resist winding up a little, “all four bodies were sent to the same funeral home. Rest In Glory Funeral Parlor.”

“Of course,” Sam says, his face lighting up. “Perfect cover. Nobody’s gonna notice or care if there’re some parts missing at the funeral.”

“And anything that’d be noticed, like the eyes? I checked-- that body was cremated.” Frowning, you think out loud, “It’s the perfect cover so why bother taking parts before the bodies make it to the funeral home?”

“Maybe whoever it is needs fresh,” Sam speculates.

You hesitate. When it comes to Dean, the crawlers in his cans of worms tend to eat flesh. “Sam what part of the Styne story are you guys not telling me?”

“It’s a long, and very ugly, story,” Sam says.

“And I am very patient, and have probably heard uglier,” you say, thinking of Peg’s war stories. “Start with why Dean’s so sure the Stynes aren’t a threat.”

“Because they’re all dead,” Sam repeats.

“And you’re sure of that cuz . . .”

“Because I killed them all.” Dean’s out of the shower, a towel tucked around his waist. “That what you wanted to hear? They killed somebody, somebody innocent. Somebody good. So I killed them all.” He glares into your pale, shocked face.�� “Twenty-nine in all, plus a kid who probably never hurt anybody.

“And you know what?” Dean includes Sam in the glaring this time. No compromises or pleas for understanding. “I don’t regret it. I’d do it again.”

With that, he grabs his duffel and vanishes back into the bathroom, slamming the door and making you jump halfway to orbit.

---

“Tell me again why I have to do this,” you bitch, kneeling outside the Employee entrance of the Rest In Glory Funeral Home.

“Because you’re fastest at picking locks,” Dean bitches back.

Having taken care of the security cameras, Sam tucks the can of spray paint back in his coat pocket. The last tumbler clicks and you open the door. “Gentlemen,” you wave them through.

Inside, the funeral parlor is cold. Still, like a staging area for graves should be. But with checkerboard tile on the floors and a pressed tin ceiling your mom would be really into. You shake your head. Not the time for woolgathering.

The three of you head downstairs. “Let’s split up,” Sam says, clicking on a flashlight. “I got the office. You guys check the embalming room?”

You nod and head down the hall. “Hey,” you say to Dean as you find the room with the long table and the canisters with pink fluid. Pink like cotton candy or the pebbles of cheap chewing gum in bubblegum ice cream. You paw through a rolling set of shelves and don’t find anything but spare needles and an airbrush set for makeup.

A grunt from Dean gets your attention. He’s bent over a table. “Check this out,” he says, pulling out a manila folder. He opens it up on an anatomy class body outline, bits shaded in colored pencil.

“Hold your cards, folks, I think we have a Bingo here,” you say. For a second you can smell cigarettes and industrial cleanser and dirty snow, see rows of silver and white heads bent over tables marking endless rows of numbered cards. It’s so vivid it takes you aback.

You’re roused by Dean snapping your name. “Sorry. What’re we looking at?”

“A shopping list, looks like,” Dean replies. He pages through the file and comes to a smudged list of body parts.

You take a closer look, and run a fingertip down the page. The words smear under your skin. “Who or whatever this thing is,” you say, “I’ll bet you a good steak dinner it’s a woman. Or pretending to be one.”

“No bet. That’s eyeliner pencil,” Dean says. “This rules out ghoul. They wouldn’t bother with paperwork.”

“Unless she’s a picky eater.” Dean gives you a look. “What?”

“Mortuary’d be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for ghouls,” Sam notes from the diner door.

“Yeah, but I doubt like hell we’re tracking a ghoul,” you say, turning aside to include Sam. Because when it comes to the man you love you have to leave room for Sam. “Find anything interesting in the manager’s office?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sam says. “List of bodies, slated for cremation.”

“Cook ‘em well-done? Philistine ghouls,” you say.

“Right?” Dean agrees. “Rare’s the only way to eat.”

“Gross,” Sam says after a moment’s thought. He shakes his head, like a horse tossing flies out of its mane.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks.

“Dunno,” Sam says, moving back to let the waitress whisk away the dirty dishes. “My head just started hurting for some reason.”

“Yeah mine too,” Dean says, rubbing the bridge of his nose and yawning like his ears hurt. “What about you?” He puts an arm around your shoulders and kisses your temple. “Your widdle head hurt?”

“Yeah a little,” you say. “And don’t call me little. I’m the big sister in this outfit.”

“Then how come you,” Sam asks, grinning like a brat, “got the kiddie placemat?”

You look down at the black-and-white line drawing on the table and pout. “It’s not even a cool picture. I wanted She-Ra.”

Dean pffts. “Girl stuff.”

“Well yeah. I know it can be kind of hard to tell but I am a girl. You dick.”

“Well yeah, you’re definitely a girl.” He kisses your neck. “Generally,” he says against your ear, using that low voice that makes your hair stand on end, “I don’t want to kiss boys . . .” he kisses your ear, “all . . .” kisses your cheek, “over.”

“Get a room you guys,” Sam groans.

“Got one. It’s on wheels,” you remind him.

“Very convenient,” Dean adds. “Hey-- where’s the waitress? Pie, it’s needed for the soul.”

“And the ass,” you add, pinching a nice handful of Dean’s posterior and laughing when he yelps. “Pack up that placemat. I wanna frame it when we get home.”

“Sure,” Sam says.

Something in the way he says it makes you take a double-take. “Sam you okay?” you ask.

“Fine! Peachy,” he says, smiling. “’Cept for this headache. Didja bring the crunchies Dean?”

“Aspirin,” Dean clarifies. “Left ‘em in the car. I’m sure the waitress will give you some if you ask her nice.” Dean’s smile goes filthy. “Might get lucky. She smelled like an Omega.”

“She did? I don’t-- you’re just scenting me," you say.

“Think I can’t pick your scent out of a lineup?” Dean asks.

“Shit, I can pick your scent out of a lineup,” Sam says. “It’s a nice scent.”

“Thank you Mr. Winchester, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” you beam up at him.

Then Sam goes down.

“Sam?” you ask, kneeling by his side. His eyes have gone . . . strange. Swimmy. Glassy. Like he’s feeling his first bong hit sinking into his brain, sinking, sinking. You mull over the texture of the word in your head, sinking.

“Oh, shit,” you sigh. Sam’s smiling up at the ceiling, blinking slow and catlike with his soft eyes. Are they green or are they brown? They’re blue sometimes, right? Taking Sam’s arm you help him up. He comes willingly, thank God, nobody and nothing moves a Sam doesn’t wanna be moved. “Dean?”

You turn your head and Dean’s there, but the colors have gone pop-funky, like someone flooded your vision with white light then repainted Dean’s face like he’s shattering the spectrum; cyan background, marigold skin, flecks and tracings of magenta around his eyes and his mouth. He’d look unbearably sexy in makeup, some shine on that pillow-soft lower lip, a hint of dark green to make those olive eyes sparkle. Like stars. “Put stars in your eyes,” you sigh.

“Stars!” Sam exclaims. “Stars! We gotta find the stars! Before they go away!”

“Yeah!” Sam hangs an arm across your shoulders and you wrap an arm around Dean’s waist. It’s a nice waist and he shouldn’t feel self-conscious about his soft tummy. “Like your soft tummy,” you tell Dean as you shut your eyes against the pop-funky light and drag your boys up the diner stairs. Why aren’t you falling? Of course, diners don’t have stairs.

“I don’t like my soft tummy,” Dean pouts. You can tell he’s pouting, he’s not good at lies last more than ten minutes.

“Soft tummy,” you fondle his stomach, “hard knot,” Dean squeaks like a baby kitten as you cup him through his jeans.

“You’re gross,” Sam tells you.

“Not that I think yours is bad,” you hasten to reassure him. “I mean, I’ve never seen it because gross.”

“Both gross,” Dean tells you. “You fart in your sleep.”

“I do not!” you and Sam yell together.

“Do too. SBD, Silent But Deadly.”

Somehow you’re outside, in the cold Columbus night and brittle frozen-over snow. Sam puts a foot wrong and stumbles. The three of you go down in a heap of legs and elbows. It feels nice to be near though, so once you sort out whose bends belong to which people, the three of you stay there.

Dean’s behind you, bracketing your body with his thick legs. Your head rests just below his heart, you can feel it stamping one-two. Sam’s behind Dean, bracketing you both with his endless long legs. Like Indians in a canoe but that’s a relic from your Let’s Do The Time Warp Again school days. How’d you get outside? Is there a ghost nearby, is that why your breath’s steaming? “Need to check EMF,” you say.

“Nah,” Sam says. “We found the stars, we’re safe. See?” he points up. “Orion the Hunter. He caught the case. We’re fine.”

“Frog’s hair,” Dean agrees. He rubs a hand over your head, kisses the soft brush of growth. “You’re not a frog are you?”

The light’s back to normal. Better than normal. You can see which stars are for-real stars, which ones are planets, which ones are the uncaring eyes of the architects of the cosmos. Those are the prettiest. “Ribbit.”

“I am in love with an amphibian,” he says, drawing out the sounds like he’s handling fragile things, like eggs, “and I’m okay with that.” Pause. “That’d make me the Bandit. You can be Snowman, Sammy.” Dean chuckles. “Snowman Sammy.”

“You’d have to give up the Impala,” Sam points out.

“Survey says Hey-ell no,” you proclaim. “’Sides, post-74 Trans Ams were crap.”

“How do you know?” Sam asks, a little obnoxiously.

“Double-nickel speed limits?” Dean says. “Death of the great American muscle cars? God Sam have I taught you nothing?”

“You taught me everything,” Sam says, his tone suddenly all quiet and subdued. “Most of what I know about being a man’s because of you.”

Your eyes fill. He’s so sincere, he really means it for true. “You know how lucky you guys are?” you ask.

Sam’s voice when he speaks to you cuts like winter cold. “How do you figure that?”

“My sisters closed me out. Like popping a zit.” You sniffle. “That’s me, the family zit. Little Clearasil and it’s like I was never there.”

“Fuck ‘em. They ain’t family if they act like that, just a bunch of assholes with the same last name,” Dean says.

“They’re still kin,” you tell them quietly. “I still miss them. How fucked up is that? My dad was ready to throw my life out onto Mom’s Peace roses and chase me off with a shotgun--”

“Jesus!” They’re doing that thing again, when their brains find the same groove.

“People go their whole lives,” you say, seeing the starscape above you shape itself around your imaginings, “looking for a groove to share. Like a river. And you guys do it so naturally you don’t even notice you’re doing it.” You point up and draw a line through the swirling stars. “See? That’s you guys, walking your groove. Dean’s in front because you’re a quicker shot, there’s Sam one step back and a little to the left so’s he can cover your off-hand and shoot past you cuz he’s got a better vantage point.”

Dean puts his hand over yours and points at a spot between and to the side of his and Sam’s stars. “What about that spot right there? Someone to cover our asses. Crack shot, quick reflexes.”

“Isn’t that where Mary goes?”

“Mom doesn’t need us,” Dean says. “She needs her space.” The stars scatter, leaving an empty midnight purple void. “Spent her life running from the . . . life, except when she’s leaving the country to go play footsie with werewolves.”

You turn over to lay on your front, settling your head over Dean’s heart. Without the stars, the tears leaking from his eyes are dark purple. These two guys, always finding new and creative ways to break your heart.

“I mean,” Dean says, “she keeps saying she’s sorry, but what’s she sorry for? Making the deal? Or us?”

“Dean no, it’s not like that. It can’t be like that,” Sam says, and you don’t know how but he’s become a big little boy. Are the bad guys real Daddy? That’s what I’m here for kittycat, I get the bad guys.

“Sam’s right,” you say. Sam has to be right. If he’s wrong, Dean will break. Finally and forever. His stars will go away. “Just because she’s having a hard time doesn’t mean she repents anything. And some people have to handle their hard times alone.”

“I can help. I have to help. The bad guys get us if I don’t help. Like when you left us for school.”

“Huh?” Sam’s even littler now. You could almost pick him up and carry him. You wish you could but your legs have died. Any life in your body, you’re getting from Dean.

“That one time I tried to call, you asked why I didn’t just ditch Dad. It’s cuz if I had Dad would’ve just disappeared. We were the only reason he held it together long as he did.”

“That was holding it together?” Sam’s back to grown now and it’s a little bit of a relief, maybe Sam can give Dean what you’re pulling out of him. Like a lizard on a hot rock.

“Compared to eating a shotgun it was.”

Sam takes a minute to digest that, to chew it 32 times and swallow. The things he likes to eat, the crunching sets your teeth on edge sometimes. Like bone on gravel, that scar aches. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” he finally says.

“Well you wouldn’t have.” Dean’s crying in earnest, the sobs are being born right under your ear, from where his heart drips blood. Your Alpha is always dripping blood. The ground is red where he lies. “You were happy-- you didn’t need me. You never have.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam says. Sam’s hands cross over Dean’s chest. You shift your head to give him room. “I kept looking for you and you kept not being there. I kept getting mad at my study partner because she never mixed up the verbs just to make me laugh. I barely slept the whole time I was waiting for the dorms to open, because you weren’t snoring in my ear. I missed you, man, and when you called all you could talk about was Dad.”

“Dad needed me. Except he didn’t, not really. While I was practically losing my mind he was taking his other son out to fucking ballgames and going fucking fishing.”

“Jesus Christ,” you say, your head full of the smell of peaches. “You guys normally get this maudlin when you get fucked up?”

“Are we fucked up?” Sam asks. “I mean, I don’t get fucked up very much. Having Lucifer try to kill me with insomnia doesn’t count. I think. I dunno.”

“There was that one time-- the wraith? the one that got all handsy with the huevos?” Dean says.

“Shit,” you say. “Gotta go kill it.” You roll yourself up to a sit, slowly, as the planet wobbles under you. “Nobody gets to play with those but me.”

“Already nailed,” Dean tells you, pulling you back down where he’s warm. “You should’ve been there. Sam got so loaded he was swatting butterflies.”

“That’s mean, Sam. Butterflies’re just looking for toast to butter.”

“Not my fault,” Sam says. “It was Dean’s job to get the jellyworms.”

The mental image of winged butter and wiggly peach jelly makes you queasy. “You don’t get to make breakfast anymore. Bread bugs.”

“Beetle battles?” Sam asks.

“In a bottle?” Dean adds.

“What bottle?” you ask.

Slurring, your Alpha and the shining star of your life starts in on the 99 bottles of beer. Sam covers his mouth with one hand, and like the persistinant little shit he is, Dean just yell-sings through it.

More of your body’s gone. You’re down to just the parts that are touching Dean. But he’s going away too. You’re draining him. Like a vampire. Soon he’ll be gone.

You lever yourself off of him and scramble away. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

“Where’d you go?” Dean asks, pulling Sam’s hand off his mouth and sitting up. “We’re not going anywheres. Right Sam? Sam? Ground Control to Major Sam.”

“Where are we Dee?” Sam’s little again and you drag your dead body to him. He’s really little, and he burns like a star in your arms until he fades.

“No!” you scream as Sam blinks to darkness. There’s no ground, there’s no sky, there’s no life, there’s no family, it’s all dark and your body’s gone nothing. I hear you talking but the words all sounding strange; one of us is crazy and the other one’s insane. It’s so not funny all you can do is scream laughter into nothing.

---

Pain is what finally brings you around, every muscle in your body feeling overstretched and hurting like blazes. Like the time your heat fever got so bad you had convulsions but worse. Dean’s asleep in a chair next to the bed, his feet hiked up on the nightstand. You try to sit up and moan as your muscles tell you they’re on strike until further notice. The dingy old landline phone clatters to the floor as Dean kicks himself awake. “Hey! There you are! You okay? Talk to me.”

“Somebody get the license plate on that truck?” you ask, and holy hell your throat feels like you’ve been gargling barbed wire. You gawp at the IV needle in your arm. “Where are we? Why am I needly? How long was I out?”

"Ohio State East Hospital," Dean says.

"Oh. Thought I recognized that Buckeye smell." You used to come here quarterly, for complete physicals. The lab rat completes the maze and gets the treat.

“Here,” Dean says, producing a bottle of PediaLyte and holding it up for you to drink. Shit, you’re drier than Death Valley in July. Dean feeds you a mouthful at a time until the bottle’s half-gone, speaking soothing nonsense. “You were out cold for almost thirty-six hours.”

“Seizure?”

"Yep. How's your stomach feeling? Think you could eat something? This place has room service."

"Beef broth and cherry Jello. The invalid breakfast of champions," you say. "Where's Sam? Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Glancing at the door and lowering his voice, Dean says, "He and Cas are taking another swing by that mortuary. I don't think they're gonna find anything though. If whoever's doing this has any brains they've blown town."

"God save us from bad guys with brains," you mutter, rubbing your throat.

Dean smiles and kisses you, soft and sweet. He doesn’t even wince at your dragon breath.

"What's the cover story?" you ask.

"We went out drinking night before last and it's all a blank after we left the motel," Dean says. "Cas found us outside the funeral home. You were totally out of it and we were tripping balls. Cas got us back to the motel room and Sam and me sobered up, but you wouldn't wake up."

"Peaches," you say. At Dean's 'huh?' grunt, you say, "I don't know what it was but I kept smelling peaches."

"Hey!" Sam sticks his head in the hospital room door, Cas trailing behind and smiling when he sees you. "You're awake!"

"Well don't hang in the door like a cobweb. Come on in," you groan as you try to raise your arm and wave Sam and Cas in. Dean lays a hand on your shoulder, gently rubbing the sore muscles beneath.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asks, pulling up the other chair.

"Like I've been very lightly racked. Even my hair hurts." You rub your stomach. "And that's gonna become a problem when the kidneys come back online."

Sam grimaces. "Too much information."

"What about you Gamgee? You're not exactly winning any beauty contests neither."

Sam looks over at Dean, a corner of his lip curled upward. "She's fine."

Dean kisses your cheek. "She's awesome."

"Flattery will get you . . . actually don't stop, I love flattery. Hey Cas."

"Hey," Castiel replies.

"What did you guys find at the mortuary?"

"Squat," Sam says. "Whoever the body snatcher is, they cleared out. And one of the place's employees, Alma Wollstonecraft, hasn't shown up for work in over a week."

You shut your eyes. "Oh fuck me 'til I cry."

"What?" Dean asks.

"Wollstonecraft," you say. "As in Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley?"

Dean shuts his eyes. "Oh fuck me 'til I cry-- you're kidding."

Sam groans. "Right in front of my face and I didn't see it."

"Not your fault. You're a genius, not God, and nobody can think of everything," you say. "Let's rewind a little-- what happened at the funeral home that made us all turn off our minds relax and float downstream?"

"We did not find anything that would cause such a reaction," Cas reports, "and four funerals were held today as scheduled."

"Okay, so. We got a body snatcher who isn't doing a very good job covering her tracks, she picks a pretty obvious alias, and when we get to her workplace we all start," you twirl your finger by your head and whistle the whoopsie-daisy. "I'm starting to smell trap."

"Which means," Dean says, "she's either long gone . . ."

". . . or she'll try again," Sam concludes.

"It lends credence to the idea that she's a member of the Styne family," Cas notes. "Someone who escaped the massacre and wants revenge."

"Not possible," Dean says.

"Dean, it is theoretically possible that--"

"Not," Dean snaps, glaring at Cas, "Possible."

Sam looks up and clears his throat. Everybody falls quiet as a nurse comes in wheeling a cartful of instruments. Sighing, you hold up your arm. "Give it to me Nurse, I can take it."

"Okay," the nurse, a petite black girl with her hair in cornrows braided tight to her scalp says, "can you tell me where you are?"

"Ohio State." You wrinkle your nose. "Buckeye country." You give the date. "Other than being massively sore, I feel fine. Alert. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

"Excellent! Relax a minute." You breathe deep and even as the nurse takes your blood pressure and temperature. "I can give you some Tylenol 3 for the pain."

"That sounds great, thank you. Throw in a couple cough drops?" You tap your throat. "Hurts."

She smiles. "I'll see what I can do." Her gaze settles on Cas and lingers, her smile deepening just a little. "Be right back."

"Did she just give you the eyes? She just gave you the eyes," Dean teases.

"Knock it off. Cas is a cutie-pie," you say.

"Well . . ." the Angel of the Lord smiles bashfully.

The nurse is back surprisingly quickly, bringing drugs, more PediaLyte, and one Dr. Jon Dykstra. You cringe into the mattress at his angry glower. Dean feels it and you can practically see his hackles rising. Sam feels it too, and he subtly puts a shoulder in between you and Dr. Jon. "Who're you?" Dean asks.

Dr. Jon introduces himself. "Just wondering what the hell my test subject is doing taking massive amounts of sedative-hypnotics and passing out in snowbanks." His nose twitches. "Oh. Which one of you is the lucky Alpha?"

You and Sam point at Dean as he jerks a thumb at himself. "She didn't take anything," he says. "We don't know what happened-- we went out drinking a couple nights ago and my brother and I woke up feeling like we got hit by a train. Not that it's any of your damn business."

"Dean relax," you say, putting a hand on his arm. "Dr. Jon's the closest thing I got to a personal physician."

"And I need to speak with my patient. Privately," Dr. Jon says.

"Anything you need to say to me they can hear," you say.

"And that's what we need to talk about." Dr. Jon reaches as though seeking a rolly-stool and looks a little bit lost when he can't find one. You roll your eyes at Dean's amused little smirk. "I really don't feel comfortable discussing this with unrelated people in the room. You need help kiddo. I want to talk to you about--"

"Let me guess," Dean says. "Three days in a psych ward, get her on some meds, work on convincing her she dreamed almost dying when a vampire fed from her leg? Not happening."

"Cool it Dean," you tell him. "He doesn't have grounds for an involuntary committal."

"If I thought it was in your best interests," Dr. Jon says, "I could make that happen. I should've made it happen sooner. Hanging around people who feed your delusions isn't helping."

"She is not delusional."

Dr. Jon turns and meets Castiel's hard glare. "I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Jon Dykstra," you say, "this is Castiel, an Angel of the Lord."

Cas sticks out his hand, and probably on pure reflex, Dr. Jon shakes it. The light Castiel actually is starts to shine, Grace beaming in his eyes. The skeletal remains of his broken wings cast shadows on the walls around him. Dr. Jon's eyes bug out. He staggers back and falls on his butt as his knees buckle.

"Is everything okay in--" the door opens and the nurse pokes her head in.

Castiel stares into her shocked eyes. "Remember nothing."

The shock drains from her face and the nurse leaves without another word, closing the door behind her.

The light fades as Castiel reins it in, shrinking back into his vessel. Sam gets up and helps Dr. Jon to his feet. "You okay? I know it's a lot to take in."

"I don't believe in you, you know," Dr. Jon says to Cas, ignoring Sam completely. "I'm a nontheist and my wife is Buddhist."

"Your belief is immaterial to the fact of my existence," Castiel says, "and one need not believe in the existence of the Host to ascend to Heaven."

"Fuck me, Heaven's real too?" Dr. Jon says.

"Yes," Castiel says. "You experienced it briefly when you died."

"I died?!?"

"You died?" you blurt.

"Oh God. I was ice fishing with my dad and fell through some thin ice. I almost drowned-- strike the almost, I guess." Dean pulls his flask out of a pocket and tosses it to Dr. Jon. Dr. Jon catches it and takes a long gulp. "I . . . you . . . Heaven, the literal Heaven."

"Yep," Dean says.

"Look, Doctor," Sam says, doing that thing he does when he's trying to impose some order on the chaos, "the bottom line is, she isn't crazy. Everything she told you, about monsters and demons--"

"Demons? Fucking demons? Who the hell are you people?" Dr. Jon cries.

"You know I'm getting real sick of people asking me that," Dean says.

"Simmer down Winchester, Dr. Jon's one of the good guys," you tell him.

"I'll take your word for it. You know him better than I do," he concedes.

"Look," you say, "after a while belief kind of exits the equation. I believe in angels and demons the way I believe in rocks, trees, and taxes. They're real, I've seen them. I've met them. Hell, I've had coffee with them."

"Angels drink coffee?"

"I enjoy the molecules," Castiel says, "and the heat is pleasing in cold weather."

"I'm not crazy," you wind it all up, "and if you try and have me committed I'll just break out. I've done it before."

"Really?" Dean asks. "When?"

"Phantom case," you say, "just after Peg died. Long story."

"I can't--" Dr. Jon fades back. "I have to go." He turns and all but runs out the door.

Dean lifts his hand. "He's got my flask," he grumbles.

"Well," you say into the silence, tossing back the little cup of pills and swallowing them dry, "that was fun. Did you bring my clothes?"

---

You sit cross-legged on the hood of a junked-out Oldsmobile, a flashlight clamped between your front teeth, reading through pages of hardcopy records on the Styne family. You're on stakeout, watching a dilapidated tract house set on a No Outlet road. Moonlight makes the shadows look alive, predatory. "Loving the locale," you bitch. "Got a very Silence of the Lambs, Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibe to it. You sure the place is empty?"

"There are no demonic or angelic presences within," Castiel says, sounding a trifle annoyed.

"I'll take your word for it," you sigh. "I'm sorry Cas, I didn't mean to be rude. I’m just trying to get my head on straight.”

“’Head on straight,’” Cas repeats, tasting the phrase. “Of course. Your muscles are probably still badly inflamed, particularly around the neck and cervical spine.”

“No that’s not what I meant.” Though now that he mentions it, you do still feel massively sore. The Tylenol is helping, but that's all it's doing.

“Here, let me take care of that,” Cas says, reaching out with his first two fingers.

“No that’s okay, I’m all right,” you brush his hand aside. “I’m just achey-breaky.”

“You are wounded, and I can help.”

“It’s healing, I don’t need help.”

"It's not a question of need," Cas says. "You're in considerable pain."

“I can handle it.”

“I am not questioning your fortitude. That would be ridiculous.”

“That’s not the point,” you say. “I shouldn’t be draining you just because I have an owie.”

“The power it would take is negligible. It would not ‘drain’ me.” Cas pauses, studying you. “Apart from your very strong sexual attraction you seem to share that aspect of your personality with Dean.”

You're sitting on a piece of shit car listening to one of God’s warriors deconstruct your sort-of trial almost-bonded relationship. One of those Dear Lord Jesus How Is This My Life? moments. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You both shun certain types of assistance, even when it’s freely offered and costs nothing.”

“Nothing comes for free Castiel. It’s basic physics.”

"'Energy can neither be created nor destroyed,' yes. It was a difficult lesson, learning that humans cannot be expressed through simple equations or behavioral models. Bees are far more straightforward. With humans, almost nothing is,” Cas hunts for the word, “untangled. Dean more so than most.”

“Cas why is Dean so sure we’re not tracking a Styne?" you ask after a moment's thought. "Stripping bodies for parts is right in their wheelhouse.”

Cas goes stiff. Ramrod stiff. Inhumanly stiff. "I don’t know if that's something I feel comfortable discussing."

"I'm sorry," you say automatically, your mind reeling at the thought of Castiel feeling uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to . . . I don't want you to feel weird around me."

"It's not that. That was a particularly difficult time, for all of us."

"So he wasn't kidding. About killing them all," you say, a part of you going still at the thought.

"No. But it was beyond killing. I watched him commit cold-blooded murder. The youngest of the Stynes, barely a child, uninvolved in their nefarious activities. Dean shot him in the head. No hesitation, no remorse. And then--" Castiel shudders. He actually shudders.

You leave a pause. "He hurt you didn't he?"

"He nearly killed me," Castiel admits after a moment. "He said, 'Next time, I won't miss.'"

The Alpha that sang about falling bottles of beer and waited by your bedside with soothing touches. The awful part is, you don't doubt Cas's version of events at all. You've always known Dean was capable of that. And worse. You don’t like imagining the damage he could do if he ever really and for truly lost his shit.

You fold up and put away your dark thoughts when you hear Baby's engine. Dean pulls her in beside the Olds. "Score?" you ask Sam as he gets out.

"Score," Sam confirms, popping the trunk. He hauls out a couple of firefighter's face masks and air tanks. "If whatever knocked us out is airborne, these should prevent us from breathing it in."

"Right. I'll head in--" you start.

"Like hell you will," Dean cuts you off.

"Knock it off Winchester," you say. "If things go fucky again, I'm the easiest one to carry.

"She's right Dean," Sam says, handing you one of the masks and holding the tank as you strap it to your back.

Your knees almost buckle under the weight. "I'm good, I'm good," you say, like every muscle you have isn't screaming at you to knock it the fuck off already. You don the mask.

"It's a demand system," Sam explains, checking the seals around your face. "It feeds air in as you breathe. Can you feel the air coming in?" You give him a thumbs-up and check your weapon as Sam does the same with Dean.

"This is a bad idea," Dean grouches.

"This outfit runs on bad ideas, dumb luck, crappy coffee, and bottom-shelf booze," you say, pulling a chuckle out of Sam.

"The coffee is usually of acceptable quality," Cas notes.

"Focus, people," Dean says.

"All right," you say. "Should we synchronize watches?" All three men give you A Look. "What?"

---

"Find anything interesting?" you ask.

"Yep," Dean's voice confirms. "A shitload of bodies. Emphasis shitload. It smells like a Tijuana toilet down here but worse."

"I'll take your word for it. There's fresh food in the fridge," you say, closing the refrigerator door. "Whoever's living here hasn't been gone long, and they need regular human food." You peek in the freezer and recoil. "Fuck!"

"What?!? What?!?" Dean snaps.

"Sorry, sorry. I think I found the missing eyeballs. And one of those gallon pails of strawberry swirl ice cream. Heading for the bedrooms."

"Yeah, go ahead and sweep the ground floor and meet me by the stairs."

"Ten-four," you confirm Dean's instruction, your pistol out, finger off the trigger, flashlight in your other hand.

The first door off the hallway's your standard stuff closet. "Well if she ran," you say, "she left in a helluva hurry. Her winter coat's still in the hall closet. And it looks like," you say, taking a closer look at the coats, "she was cohabitating with somebody. There's a men's sized overcoat in here." You take a closer look. "More than one other person. There's a pair of ten buck boots next to some custom-made Moroccan in here.

"Check for ID?" Sam asks.

"Doing it. Not finding any," you confirm, going through the coat's pockets. The next room, the second bedroom, is a bare box. Writing in what looks like blood drips all over the eggshell-white walls. "We are officially in Hinkeyville," you say. "Blood on the walls, a shitload of Enochian-- Cas can you come up here and take a look at this? I can't sight-read Enochian." You holster your weapon and get out your phone, snapping pictures. "The blood's been here a while. More than a few days."

"Check. I found this chick's secret torture dungeon. Looks like it's seen some use." Dean cusses. "Ugh. Found her walk-in cooler. "I don't even know how many bodies' worth of parts I'm looking at. I think I'm gonna puke forever."

"Shut your eyes and think of pretty trees, Dean," you advise, checking the bathroom. Standard tub/shower, sink, and potty. Could use a good scrubbing but no blood here.

"Pretty trees," Dean says dreamily. His tone firms, gets back to normal. "Thanks sweetheart, I needed that."

"Anytime handsome," you say, opening the last door and shining your flashlight on a completely normal master bedroom. "Do me a favor. Knock on the ceiling where you're at-- I have an idea."

"Uh, hold on." A moment later you hear a tap coming from under the bed.

You open the closet on hangers of business casual and regular street clothes. "Can you hear this?" you stamp your heel down on the floor.

"Yeah, do that again." You stamp as you gently probe the wall behind the clothes hangers. It jiggles. You feel around and find it, a gap in the wall paneling. A hard tap of your fist in one corner and something clicks. Shoving the clothes aside, you open the loose panel and find a shaft going down, a ladder on the opposite wall. Looking down, you see a beam of light and a moment later Dean's air-masked face pokes in and looks up at you. Even through the mask you can see the light of his smile. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"You're correct, the writing is Enochian. It's a summoning spell," Castiel says. "The portion naming the specific demon has been obscured."

"Yeah, why make our lives easy?" Dean asks.

"I think this leads up to the attic," you say. "Come on up with me?"

"Yeah." You test the rungs and start climbing, into a roof crawlspace dark as the inside of a mine shaft. You pan your flashlight beam around and jump halfway out of your skin when it reflects off a frightened pair of eyes.

Swearing, you tiptoe on the wooden planks set overtop the puffy flats of ceiling insulation. The eyes belong to a skinny girl dressed in a grimy rag, all the knobs of her joints poking through her bloodless skin.

“Cas get in here! We got a live one!” you say. Setting the flashlight aside, you gesture behind your back. Dean grunts his understanding. “You’re gonna be all right. It’s okay,” you say. In the indirect light you see the girl’s lips move. Badly chapped and the flesh below looks gray and dry. You take your scratched-up canteen off your belt. “Can you move? Are you hurt? I’ve got some water here. Christus miseracordiae!” you throw a jet of holy water and the girl comes alive as it hisses into her skin.

Snarling, enraged, inhuman, the ‘girl’ stands. The chain wrapped around her neck falls away with a tug. “I almost had you,” the demon riding the emaciated girl said with a smile full of white teeth. “I thought so sure you’d fall for it again.”

You go stiff. The barn in Texas.

“We had such a grand old time,” she purrs. “I have particularly fond memories of the IV bags.” The house layout, are you in the right place? “Made that little girl’s blood boil. It was exquisite. You know her parents never stopped looking for their pretty girl?”

“Stop it,” you whisper, choking up. Tiny fingers and so much blood.

The girl’s corpse grin widens and she creeps closer.

“What’re you talking about?” Dean asks.

“Oh of course she wouldn’t tell you. Her handsome boy. Not exactly fitting subjects for pillow talk--”

You lunge, grab the girl, twist, and fall to the right. Together you crash through the ceiling insulation and land square on the bed in the master bedroom. Castiel’s right there going for the closet. “Cas seal it in!” you grunt, but before he can the girl in your arms screams out a thick plume of black smoke.

---

Castiel touches his fingers to your forehead, and the head-to-toe bruises and strained muscles just . . . stop. The ringing in your head goes silent and your vision snaps back into place. “Woaholy shit.”

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Thank you,” you tell him, stretching. No ache, not even a little bit. “How’s our guest?”

“Sam and Dean have her. Her real name is Darlene Styne.” Castiel hands you a tablet and you page through an impressively complete dossier-- a birth certificate, a high school diploma, photostats of two driver’s licenses, one issued by the state of Louisiana and the other by Ohio. They both show the same blandly pretty face and collar-length brown hair.

“Alma Wollstonecraft,” you read, and cuss. “Cas were you able to count how many people--"

“In the basement? Altogether, I counted fourteen bodies. In . . . varying states of disassembly.”

“Jesus,” you breathe. “This is good work Cas, thank you.”

A small, bashful smile curves Castiel’s mouth. Then it disappears. “It appears this girl was away from the family estate when Dean . . .” he trails off. “This was apparently a trap.”

“Yeah,” you say. “For me.”

Cas does a double-take. “What do you mean?”

Carry your heart with you, Peg speaks from your memory, but know when to put it away. You put your heart away. “Where are they keeping her?”

---

“Styne, Darlene Mariah,” the skinny girl is saying as you walk into the house's garage. Woman, you correct yourself. She’s not shaking, she’s not emaciated, and she’s not scared. She might be seated on a throne instead of chained to a metal chair. “Born April 13th, 1995--"

“To Monroe and Chrysabella Styne. Born at home, at the family estate in Louisiana. Yeah, we heard you the first,” Sam thinks a second, “seventeen times.”

“What were you doing with all those bodies?” Dean asks.

“Shopping for a new spleen. They come in assorted colors you know,” Styne smiles at Dean.

“You know, I shot your baby brother in the head,” Dean says, leaning in close. “Think I’d have a problem blowing you away?”

“I know you wouldn’t, honey child.” Styne crosses her legs, relaxes back like a lady to the manor born. “Styne, Darlene Mariah. Born--”

“Eighteen,” Sam sighs.

“Guys would you excuse us for a second?” you ask.

“I think we got this,” Dean says.

“I can go all night, boy,” Styne singsongs.

“I don’t care about you,” you tell her. “Dean can grind you into beneficial mulch for all I care. The demon that was riding you, you called it. So not only were you killing people for parts,” you say, “you were prostituting yourself to the forces of evil. Then I suppose you had . . .” you trail a finger over her cheekbone, “practice.”

Styne’s perfect poise cracks. There’s a pulse of real anger in those brown eyes.

“Yeah. You don’t exactly fit the model of human perfection,” you say. “Asthmatic, untalented, and no way your good looks’ll hold much past twenty-five. That leaves a very short list of career options for a girl in a family of eugenicist fuckwits.”

“Is this what you did to break that little girl? She was even younger than me wasn’t she?” Styne fires back.

“No,” you shrug. Your heart is put away and nothing this subject can say to you matters. “That was a sewing kit and some IV bags.”

“This outta be entertaining. Dean Winchester’s breeder’s gonna try and take a crack at little ol’ me,” Styne says, grinning a shark’s grin.

"The last of the Stynes, who I’m pretty sure got her bony ass demoted to child mistress, is judging me," you say. "Hilarious."

The smile falls off her face. “We,” she says, “are gods.”

“I’ve met Gods,” you say. “Most of them are sad little shadows of what they once were. Clinging to a world that doesn’t want them. Your family was fine with using you like a whorechild but your baby brother? He got loved. The good kind. The kind that says, 'Nobody better lay a hand on my precious boy.' Like the old saying says, 'Sons are your blessings, daughters are a curse.' And a Beta? Least if you were Omega you might've been useful."

“You’re jumpin to a lotta crackpot conclusions bout my family.”

“Name rank and serial number's passé when it comes to obscuring information," you say. "Your full name and birthdate gets me your medical history. You’ve gone to the hospital five different times to get treated for UTIs and yeast infections. You were expelled from two different schools for violent outbursts; specifically, you attacked your classmates’ faces. Had your first penicillin series at twelve, I’m guessing for chlamydia. Got you started early.”

"God," Sam says.

“It’s so obvious it’s kind of sad. Probably trained you to enjoy it too. Families like yours usually do. My point is,” you continue, “you have a decision to make. You can answer our questions, and we’ll kill you. Or you can not, I disfigure you in ways no surgery can fix, and we lace you into a straitjacket and leave you at the nearest cop shop. Fourteen dismembered bodies? Sam does Ohio have a death penalty?”

“Yes but-- but the last time anybody was executed was in 1963,” Sam says.

You shrug. “Life in prison with no hands, no feet, no eyes, and no tongue? That’s even better.”

“Wow,” Styne drawls. “That’s almost as good as some of the tricks you came up with in Hell, Dean-o.”

“Think I’d keep her from doing it?” Dean asks. “Want to hear what I did to your little brother?”

“Cyrus was just a kid.” The crack in her cool’s nice and wide now.

“Yeah and I was in a hurry then,” Dean says. “Right now, I got time.”

“Do you?” Styne smiles.

“Whose coats are hanging up next to yours?” you ask.

“Sometimes, the demon, well, she likes to switch bodies. Like shoes.”

“No wonder she slipped your PayLess ass,” you retort.

Sam winces. “Whoa!”

“Harsh,” is Dean’s judgement.

You think a moment. "Wait. Can demons reanimate the dead?"

"Why?" Dean asks. "Demons don’t need permission to possess somebody. They just do it."

“No but angels do,” Sam says. “But-- but what if . . .” He turns his attention on Styne. “You were running experiments, right? Where’re your lab books?”

Styne rattles the chains on her arms. “Let me go. I’ll take you right to ‘em.”

"This isn't a negotiation," you say. From your pocket you pull out a little zippered case, and from the case you pull out a syringe, a fine-bore needle, and a vial of clear liquid. "Lidocaine. I figure a hardcore surgery addict would have a pretty high threshold of pain, so peeling your skin off and setting it on fire would be entertaining, but a waste of time."

"So just kill me already," she snaps. "What're you waiting for?"

"Hold her arm still, I need to get at her hand," you tell the boys. Dean gets behind her and wraps his arms around her chest, while Sam snaps one huge hand around her forearm. Styne jerks her hand around as much as Sam's grip and the chain on her wrist will allow. All it does is make the injection sloppy. You've had a lot of practise with a needle.

"What're you going to do to me?" she asks, sounding legitimately nervous for the first time.

"It's terrifically clichéd," you say, " but we're doing the Kill Bill thing. I'm going to start asking questions. And every time I don't like the answers, I'm going to cut something off."

"I can replace anything you take away," Styne growls.

"Did you miss the part about your next stop being the Ohio State Police?" you ask. "You're never going anywhere near a scalpel again." You tap Styne's hand. "Should be nice and numb by now. Let's start with," you click open your pocketknife, "the thumb."

---

It takes a while. Living tissue is tough. Resilient. Fingers, one by one, drop to the garage's cement floor. Then toes. The boys, looking paler and more ill by the minute, clench their jaws and follow your terse instructions. Styne starts screaming when you figure her dominant eye, and gouge it out with a hard hook of one thumb. The texture of an eyeball as it bursts is a sensation all its own.

Eventually, she coughs up a name and your blood runs cold. "Unbelievable," you say. "This dumbass bitch was trying to summon Lythalia."

"Who?" Sam asks.

"Asthear, Guide to the Infernal Realms," you say. "The story goes God created Adam and Lilith as the first humans. When Lucifer fell--"

"Yeah, he corrupted Lilith and turned her into the first demon," Sam says. "Lucifer's corruption of free will. His Fuck You to God."

"Right," you nod. "That was only part of the Fuck You. The bigger part is Lilith was pregnant when she was corrupted."

"What?" Sam and Dean bark, together, and in harmony.

You nod. "Lucifer claimed all three as his own. They became basically demonic demigods. Lilith the Queen of Hell, the incarnation of Temptation, Lythalia, and the incarnation of Torment--"

"Alastair," Dean finishes. "Why would you summon something like that? Straight up revenge not enough for you?"

"Not revenge," Styne pants. "Justice, you infected sore."

You backhand her and blood goes flying. "Words have meanings. Why that demon specifically?"

"Because of the meaning of the word justice." Styne sneers, her one eye rolling to include all the good guys. "The only difference between you people and my family is the hair shirts you wear. You wanna hear about all the crimes against humanity your family's committed? The Campbells didn't leave Ireland-- they were chased out. And the Winchesters? Hah." Even maimed, Styne has the fortitude to curl her lip. "The people who almost brought on the end of the world are going to kill my kinfolk and call it justice? If God's too lazy to damn you, I'll do it for him. Lythalia's got big plans for y'all."

"Yeah well, maybe you hadn't noticed," Dean says, low and menacing, "in the Us Versus Them, we killed her mother and her brother."

"Using demon powers you no longer have," Styne retorts, and Sam pulls in a breath.

"Where there's a will there's a way," you shrug. "Now about those lab notes."

---

Styne -- or what's left of her -- can't scream. She can only make a deranged sort of hooting noise, as you bundle her into a rusted out Pontiac and park it at an abandoned Gas'n'Sip somewhere very dark and very empty. "If it's any consolation," you say, getting your bag and flicking open your pocketknife, "I lied." You slit her throat, soak the seats with gasoline, jog a few yards away, and strike a road flare. The Impala pulls up and Cas opens the door. You toss the flare, jump in, and Dean's already half a mile up the road when the fireball blooms.

---

"I think we picked up a nail in the tire," Sam says thirty uncomfortable minutes later.

At a glance in the rearview Dean says, "Yeah I see it. Don't look around."

You reach into your pocket and pull out a pressed powder compact and a tube of lip balm. A quick look through Baby's rear windshield in the compact's mirror as you moisturize your lips and you see it too-- a man in a dark sedan, his face mostly covered by a scarf and his head covered with a stocking cap. "Yeah, nobody in this neighborhood's got a reason to be cruising around in a Jag. Turn left at the next light."

"All right, are you going to tell us what's going on?" Dean asks.

"Uh . . . are you on the rag or something Beavis?" you say in your best Butt-Head.

"Can it. That demon talked like it knew you," Dean says.

"And do you usually skip straight to dismemberment when you're questioning people?" Sam asks. "That was kind of unpleasant to watch."

From Sam Winchester, who did hard time as Satan's cellmate, that's saying a lot. "I don't know if it's the same one or not," you admit. "Demons gossip like retired fishermen. I had a case in West Texas that I seriously screwed up. I've had demons throw it back in my face a few times."

"What happened?" Dean asks.

"Do we have to talk about this right now?"

"Yes. What happened?"

You put your real self back into that iron box under your heart, next to the necrotic pieces of your soul that died in Odessa. "This idiot kid found a summoning spell in an old Apocrypha. God knows where she found it. She offered her little sister as a meatsuit. I killed the summoner and bound the demon in a devil's trap in an old horse barn. Or so I thought. I didn't paint one of the binding sigils correctly. The demon let me torture it most of that night, like I was really torturing a little girl. Except near the end, it slipped out of her and I didn't know it. She died screaming." Mami por favor ayúdame! shrieks out of your memory. "She was seven."

Your real self comes back out of the box, and the silence in the car makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. Anything not to have any of these men look at you with the contempt you deserve.

After a supply run at the Meijer's, Dean parks the car at the motel and the four of you pile out. "You got the groceries?" Dean asks, getting his 1911 out and covering the sound of the hammer clicking back by grinding his heel into the frozen slush on the asphalt.

"Yeah," you say, opening Baby's trunk, rifling the plastic bags, and closing it back again. The supplies will keep in the cold. Right on cue Sam leaps to your defense and he and Dean start irritatingly bitching about the proper role of women and Omegas even when said woman Omega is armed to the teeth. On cat feet, you sneak around the back of the building, force open the unlocked and greased bathroom window, and climb through.

The bathroom door is hanging open, and you see a dark shape sitting on Sam's bed. You pull your Glock and, the click-click loud as a gunshot itself in the silence, work the slide. The shoulders of the phantom stranger go stiff. "Bugger me," you hear a voice whisper.

"Come on in guys, I have him," you call. The 'argument' outside ceases and the boys come in. Sam flips on the light, and even from the back you recognize the set of the spine. It's the taller British Man of Letters from that empty highway in Colorado, the one that set your teeth on edge.

"Fuck me," Dean says.

"You're hardly my type," the Man of Letters sarcasms back.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

The man turns to look at you. "Please allow me to introduce myself-- Arthur Ketch, Men of Letters." You don't speak, you don't move, and you keep your pistol aimed right at his upper lip. Ketch sighs, turning his attention back on Sam and Dean. "All right. We happen to be working concurrent lines of inquiry. The Stynes as they exist today are no longer a threat and the old men were content to ignore them. Then reports of very precisely dismembered bodies started showing up and Mick dispatched me to look into them. I arrived in town to find you taking care of the problem-- with, I might add, a truly impressive degree of sadism."

The boys all look at you. You don't return the look. "The Stynes were an issue in Europe and Russia for a good seven hundred years at least, and the Men of Letters are just now getting around to doing something about them?" you ask.

"Yes well, previously our mandate, as you must know, was strictly observational in nature and there are not very many of us in the United States yet. Which is why Mr. Davies is working so hard on his recruitment drives," Ketch says, in that condescending growl that says you'd have to do a lot more than get the drop on him for him to see you as anything other than Dean Winchester's Omega slut. Right about then, you mentally take Mick Davies's business card and pitch it. "I suggest we check into some more . . . hospitable surroundings, get a good night's sleep, and if we're quick about it we can complete mop-up by tomorrow afternoon."

"Do we hafta?" you whine, just a little. "I mean, the room's already paid for and I don't want to pack up all our shit and move for, what, maybe three hours of rack time?"

"Yeah," Sam says, yawning. "How 'bout we meet you for breakfast?"

"As you like," Ketch says, standing. "I'm staying at the Sheraton at Capitol Square, room 618. He glances back at you. "Madam."

"Mr. Ketch." You keep right on aiming at him until you hear his car door open. Everybody takes a deep breath when he starts up and he pulls out of the motel parking lot in a crunch of frozen slush.

---

The nice thing about having an angel on the payroll is not having to set a watch. After painting devil's traps at every access point and salting the door and windows, the three mortal people hit the rack and Castiel sits next to the door with his angel blade on his lap and a shotgun within easy reach. It makes you feel secure enough you relax into sleep.

Until you wake up from a nightmare. Dean dodges as you swing your switchblade, backing up out of reach. "Sorry!" he whispers. "You were moaning in your sleep."

"What time is it?" you ask, groaning when Dean tells you and falling back on the cot. Being the smallest, you always get the cot. You and Dean made the decision right off the bat to never share a bed on the job. False sense of security, sleeping in Alpha's arms. And not fair to Sam to make him listen when the inevitable happens.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, hunkered down next to the cot. He glances at the bed where Sam’s stirring and up at Castiel. The Angel of the Lord's watching with the total absorption of a fan watching a ballgame. Closing his eyes, he sighs and the moment’s gone. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, levering yourself upright and reaching for your duffel. "Dibs on first shower."

You’re not okay but you can function, and functional is what’s called for.

---

"Good morning," Ketch greets the four of you. Add this to the dislike list; Ketch has your aunt's gift of communicating intense disapproval without moving a muscle in his face. You square your shoulders and lift your head just so. A queenly carriage and impeccable manners are your weapons when it comes to passing in spaces for which you are severely underdressed. Casual dress code your ass.

Dean's approach is completely the opposite. His normal bowlegged amble turns into a full-on swagger and he's the only man you know who can somehow slouch with a perfectly straight back. He even nicks a toothpick from the little dispenser at the host's station. Ironically, Sam looks the most out-of-place of any of you, self-conscious of his ragged work clothes in a way you and Dean aren't. Castiel is just Castiel-- eternal, unchanging, and not quite fitting in anywhere.

"They want how much for extra bacon?" Dean squeaks when he gets a look at the menu.

Ketch sighs. "Room and meals whilst in the field are expense-able. My treat."

"Oh well in that case--"

"Right, to business," Ketch says after the orders are in. "This is the most recent version of the Styne family tree we have available." He unfolds a legal-sized sheet of paper and hands it to Dean. "I'd like you to take a look at it, cross out anyone we haven't already confirmed dead."

You take a marker out of the little pouch on your belt and hand it to Dean. Dean uncaps it with his teeth and scans down the page, putting big black Xs through most of the pictures. "That's all I remember."

Ketch's eyebrows take a trip to his hairline. "So . . . it's true, then. You singlehandedly wiped out the family's leadership. Impressive." Dean doesn't say anything, and something in the stony silence makes Ketch back off. "Yes, well, based on that, there are only two people left who potentially have access to the Styne family fortune, along with the locations of their magical items." He takes the paper back from Dean and uses your pen to draw circles around two pictures. "Fraternal twins, Bernard Styne and Bella Styne-Davion. Both of whom were living abroad until roughly six months ago when they met in New York and disappeared."

"When you say 'family fortune,'" Sam asks, "how much of a fortune are we talking about?"

"Legitimate assets total roughly eight hundred million dollars US." You cuss. "That's without factoring in the value of esoterica such as the Blood Grimoire or the Book of the Damned."

"Has anyone come forward to take control of the estate?" you ask. Dean shoots you a look and you shrink a little in your seat. Omegas are like children and should be seen and not heard, says that look.

"No. The estate is still in the hands of the courts," Ketch says, directing his answer towards Dean and not you. Good. Stephen King calls it being dim, when you're there but people's eyes just sort of glide over you. To a certain stripe of Alpha, Omegas aren't people; you're props. "Both of the remaining Stynes being human and apparently uninterested in the family legacy, they didn't rate more than occasional surveillance."

"Cas when did Darlene Styne start working at that mortuary?" Sam asks. "Okay, figure a few weeks job hunting. When did the other two come to New York?"

Ketch gives the date. "About the same time. Coincidence?" Dean thinks out loud.

"Doubtful," Castiel notes. "The Alma Wollstonecraft identity was very convincing."

"She would've had to pass an employment background check," Sam says.

"Can I see that family tree a second?" you ask Dean as something occurs to you

Dean takes it back from Ketch and passes it on to you. "What're you thinking babe?" he asks, low.

"Bernard and Bella are pushing sixty. Ethics usually go by the boards when you get a diagnosis like heart failure or cancer. I'd bet you lunch at my favorite sushi place that's why Darlene suddenly got into body snatching," you say.

"That's good baby," Dean touches your arm and leans in to give you a kiss.

"Don't overdo it," you whisper through your teeth.

"You neither," Dean whispers back.

"Well if that's the case, we may be lucky and both the remaining Stynes are in the area," Ketch says. "The old men want them captured alive and shipped back to headquarters for interrogation."

"Can we prove they were in on Darlene's body snatching? I mean, if-- if they haven't killed anybody and they're not into the family's dark magic--" Sam starts.

"It'll be up to the old men to sort out guilt or innocence; my orders are to capture them alive," Ketch overrides Sam.

"Good luck with that. Why should we care?" Dean asks, speaking for the good guys.

"It's up to you," Ketch shrugs. "I can certainly manage on my own. I should think, however, you would have a deep interest in ensuring the Stynes' extinction. They have very good reasons not to like you, and there's the small matter of whatever demon the dead Styne was trying to summon." Yeah, that. You'd hoped Ketch would overlook that. "The Stynes traditionally worked without the patronage of demons; it would be useful to know why this one broke pattern."

"On her own, deep undercover-- maybe it was a contingency plan. Break Glass In Case Of Emergency," Dean says.

Ketch shrugs, taking another bite of his grapefruit. "Well? Can I count on your assistance, gentlemen?" You shut your eyes and entertain a brief fantasy of spiking Arthur Ketch's eyeballs out.

"Why should we? We didn't exactly get off on the right foot with your bosses," Sam points out.

"That's understandable," Ketch concedes. "As I said, this is merely a convergence of mutual interests. The Men of Letters do work with independent contractors on a temporary basis-- I can see to it you're compensated for your time."

"Now you're speaking my language," Dean says with a mercenary's smile.

---

"I need a shower," you say once you're all piled into the Impala. "Like an all-day radiation exposure shower. I fucking hate playing submissive Omega."

"I think he bought it," Dean says. "After last night I wasn't sure he would."

"Why are we working to deceive Mr. Ketch?" Castiel asks. "His opinion of you really doesn't make any difference."

"It might someday, and I'd prefer he underestimate me," you say. “Anyway, did either of the Stynes’ IDs ping anywhere local?”

“Nowhere I can see,” Sam says, head bent to his tablet. “Course doctor’s office records aren’t always online. Some smaller practices still use hardcopy charts and we still have Styne’s lab books to go through.”

You heave a sigh. “Who gets to stay behind and help me read the mad science?”

Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean. Two fists rise into the air.

---

“Did he have to do the happy dance?” Sam asks as the Impala pulls away, leaving you behind in a stack of Iron Mountain documents boxes.

“Come on, let’s see if the body-snatching bitch was as least decent about her record-keeping,” you say, opening the first box.

She was. To the point Sam has to excuse himself to go outside for some air. “Can we at least narrow down a diagnosis?” he asks as he re-enters and puts down a fresh salt line.

“Not really,” you say. "Okay say she really was taking live tissue for transplant. That’d require specialty supplies-- anti-rejection meds, blood and plasma for transfusions, heavy-duty antibiotics.”

“Drugs for deep anesthesia,” Sam says, picking up his laptop. “Let’s make a list, figure a catch-basin of 100 miles centered on Columbus?”

“I’ll start with that. Can you hack the national donor registry? If the twins were trying to distance themselves from the rest of the family they might be trying legal channels.”

You and Sam have been at it -- mutually turning your noses up at lunch -- for a few hours when Sam’s phone chirps. “Hey, Dean. You’re on speaker.”

“Hey guys. How’s study hall going?”

"I may never eat meat again," you say.

"Blasphemer. You love bacon more than I do."

“I’m sure we’ll kiss and make up. Anywho, so far, nada. Did you guys find anything interesting?”

“Maybe. Ketch found a bunch of surgical supplies. Gas canisters, intubation kits.”

“Did anything have labels?” you ask.

“It looks like she swiped the stuff from that college hospital, Ohio State East. Ketch is on his way there, see what he can see.”

"Yeah, good idea. Nurses gossip and up until a couple years ago I was something of a frequent flyer there. I'd be recognized."

"Maybe we could use that. Do you know anybody on staff that might give us access?"

"Well since Dr. Jon thinks I'm nuts, not really." You sigh at Sam's look. "Guys I spent most of my time trying to forget I volunteered to be a fucking lab rat."

"Okay, okay, just asking."

"Well I'm not coming up with anything in the national donor registry. Did you find anything at her place that gives any hints how she was picking her victims?" Sam asks.

"Nah, bupkes. Cas is inside now trying to find if there's anything hidden in the walls or if there's something dug out under the foundation. Oh hold on-- find anything?"

"Yes. Dean, you'd better come and take a look at this," you can hear Castiel's gravely voice a few yards distant.

Dean's bootheels crunch over snow, go quiet over carpet, clock down stairs. "Jesus fucking Christ-- sorry Cas."

"I found a section of the cellar wall that'd been freshly repaired," Cas explains. "I believe it's one of the missing Styne twins-- the male, Bernard."

"What's left of him," Dean chokes. "From the smell--"

"He's been dead at least two weeks. Possibly longer. The frozen ground would have inhibited decay." God bless Castiel's absolute calm. It's something you can take your cues from.

Or so you think until Cas suddenly blurts a word that makes all three human slobs gasp.

"Jeez Cas, you kiss God with that mouth?" Dean asks.

"I would not-- never mind. The runes upstairs and the condition of the body-- we need to find Bella Styne. Now."

"Cas what's going on?" you ask.

"I believe the Stynes are attempting a spell. The Sacrifice of the Twins."

The strength falls out of your body. "Oh my God."

"What does the sacrifice do exactly?" Dean asks.

"It's powerfully evil magic," Castiel explains. "If it's done correctly it creates a Devil's Gate."

"There's not one already here?" you can't resist snarking.

"Not funny," Sam says.

Asking your name, Castiel says, "Do you know of a supplier nearby? We need to make hex bags."

"What for?" you ask after giving him directions to a botánica you know off I-70.

"Cas is right-- before we go anywhere near this bitch we need to make sure she can't Jedi Mind Trick us again. We got lucky all it was last time was a bad trip."

You frown at Sam. "How bad?"

"Pretty bad," he admits, rubbing his hand like he's working out an ache.

"All right, sit tight. Cas and I're going to the store to pick up the ingredients we need. Call if you get any hits on Bella Styne."

You don't say anything right when Sam hangs up with Dean. 'Pretty bad,' by Winchester standards boggles the mind; you need a minute to put your racing thoughts in order. Something's tickling at your awareness. Like holding the last lens of a telescope in your hand and if you could only put it in the right place, everything will snap into focus. "God damn it, what am I missing?" you mutter.

Sam looks up from checking the salt line by the door. You hold up your hand, and Sam goes still. "Peaches," you say. "Why do I keep smelling peaches?"

"Smelling peaches or scenting peaches?" Sam asks.

You do a double-take, but force yourself to take his question seriously. Because there's a difference, between smelling a fragrance in the air and scenting pheromones and drawing an association. Dean and Sam both scent like apples to you -- Dean sweet like a baking pie and Sam tart like fresh off the branch -- because they're related and you associate apples with good things, homey things. "Scenting them," you say, half to yourself. "Like my mom's kitchen when dad was hauling fruit one summer. The whole house stank like cooking peaches."

Sam's staring off into space, like he's struggling with his own focus. "Yeah. I thought I was crazy, but-- but I kept thinking I was scenting peaches because," he swallows, "because that's what Jess scented like to me. Peaches and those animal crackers with the pink icing."

"Fiancée?" you ask.

"Not quite, but almost," he says, sadly. "I was shopping for a ring when--" he clears his throat. "When our Dad dropped off the map hunting Azazel, Dean came and got me to help find him. It was the first time I'd seen him since I left for Stanford."

"Not exactly a happy family reunion I take it?"

Sam chuckles. "Wrestled each other to a draw and spent five minutes watching him mentally undress my girlfriend. I felt like I'd stepped into a time warp. We trailed Dad to the case he was working when he disappeared and after we'd cleaned that up Dean dropped me back at our apartment. If we'd gotten there an hour sooner, I could've saved her.

"The place smelled like cookies. I remember . . . I was tired and head-to-toe bruises but . . . it felt really good, seeing Dean again. Even working together again. I mean, I was thinking that maybe things were going to be okay." Sam needs a minute and you give it to him. This is something you need to know. "I remember laying down, and something dribbled onto my face. I opened my eyes, and there she was. Pinned to the ceiling with her stomach split open. Her blood was raining down on me. Fire just exploded out of her. I-- I have no idea how but if Dean hadn't been right there-- my clothes were smoldering when he dragged me out."

You get up and cross the room to him. Sam stiffens when you wrap him in your arms. "I'm sorry."

"You wanna know something?" Sam asks you, pulling up a chair. You sit on top of the table. "When Cas found us, while you were out? I don't know what Dean's trip was like, but-- but mine was like this whole alternate history. Jess and me were married, Jess was finishing her residency. I had a good job, and-- and we just found out Jess was pregnant. I wanted Dean to know. More to rub his face in it, I guess," he says, his lips twisting in one of his cheer-free smiles. "It took me weeks, running all of his and Dad's old aliases, before I gave up and called Bobby.

"Bobby didn't take my call. He just hung up. The next day I got a text from an unknown number. Burner phone. It was a picture of a newspaper clipping. Dean's mug shot, and an announcement that the cops in Detroit found him at the Detroit Salt Works. Shot in the head."

"Oh God," you whisper.

"That wasn't even the worst part," Sam says, not looking at you. "The clipping was a good five years old."

You go rigid. The obituary tucked into your battered file folder, in the locked drawer of your desk back at the bunker.

"I mean, I tell myself no, there's no way that would've happened, that I didn't throw Dean out of my life that much, when I went to school. But-- but-- I never called him. Not once. Dean called me, I found his number in my call history a few times. But even that stopped after my sophomore year. And-- and he doesn't talk much about when he was Hunting alone, but you've been there, you know how that gets after a while."

"It drives you crazy," you say. "Big difference between being alone because you want to be alone and being alone because you don't think you're welcome anywhere."

Sam looks at you like you're Moses delivering wisdom from on high. "Yeah." Another one of those humor-free chuckles. "Doesn't make me feel better."

You think a moment. "Sam you were a kid. Nobody's perfect and don't you dare tell Dean I said this, but from what little I know of him your Dad made a lot of bad judgment calls when it came to you and Dean."

"I get most of them now."

"Like I told you the other day," you say, "that doesn't mean you give up the right to be mad about what got lost. It was on your dad to be enough of a man to put you and Dean first. No matter what, because that's what you do when you have pups."

"By that standard," Sam says, "Dean was more of a man when he was six than Dad ever was."

Aware that the ground is shifting and sliding under your feet, you squeeze Sam's shoulder. "Want some coffee?"

Sam laughs, a real one this time. "I think if I have any more caffeine my nerves will leap out of my body. I'm good."

"Okay. When that happens," you rifle through the grocery bags and pull out your secret winter weapon-- hot apple cider mix. "Hit this with some extra cinnamon. I don't know about you but my blood sugar's in the deep freeze."

"Not a bad idea," Sam says. As he gets to his feet he knocks over a stack of file folders and a pad of paper flops out.

Your heart stops. You know that pad of paper.

Cussing, Sam bends to pick up the mess. Moving like you're underwater, you squat and separate that pad of paper from the main bulk. Copy-proof paper, dented with traces of a ballpoint pen. If you shut your eyes you can see the gold stick held in between long fingers, writing endless prescriptions for endless drugs and endless supplies.

Sam sets the files back on the table. He spies you still hunkered down, and shaking. "What?"

You hold up Dr. Jon Dykstra's prescription pad.

---

"This is Dean's other, other cell, so you must know what to do."

"Dean call me. Right now," you say, sticking your phone in your pocket. You and Sam are moving through the parking lot of the Quality Farm and Fleet about half a mile from the motel. Sam picks out an obnoxiously clean Grand Cherokee, pulls the alarm wires, and off you go.

Your phone rings as you hit the highway. "What? What's going on?"

"When we were going through the records we pulled out of Darlene Styne's place we found Dr. Jon's prescription pad," you explain.

"That's impossible. I would have sensed if he was possessed," Castiel says.

"You said Lythalia's a master of illusion. What if she can cloak herself, even from angel senses?" Sam says.

"Cas?" Dean prompts when Cas doesn't answer.

"It's not impossible," Cas admits. "We never fully understood the range of Alastair's power and Lythalia's even more of an enigma than he was."

"I'm texting you an address," you say "Meet us there."

"Understood," Castiel says. "If you get there first do not engage. Alastair couldn't be killed with the demon knife--"

"We're not killing Dr. Jon," you say.

"Dr. Jon's already dead!" Dean says, with that clench to his voice means he's fighting to keep traction-- his Baby's a handful on snowy roads. "Any demon'd just tear him apart while you watch--"

"That's not why," you say, biting the words off like they taste nasty. "I've been seen with him within the last few days. Dr. Jon's not some drunk in a bar skipping out on back alimony. He teaches at Ohio State, he gives lectures, he's got patients. He disappears, people will notice, and my happy fat ass will be the first name on any suspect list. And if the cops find me, they find you." And if a demon's possessing Dr. Jon, it means they have access to your real identity, including your family’s names and locations. So far that includes your dad, four sisters, three brothers-in-law, six nieces, a nephew with a Caf-Pow addiction, and your youngest sister's fiancée-- and all that is just the immediate family. "Cas, is smiting an option?"

"Problematic," he says. "If Lythalia's abilities are in any way comparable to Alastair's or Lilith's, she can burn me out of my vessel."

"All right, last resort." You cuss as you look up and realize you missed the exit. "Do we know if a straight-up exorcism will work?"

"The Rituae Romanum? I don't know. It didn't work on Lilith," Dean says.

"We usually use the shortened version," Sam says. "The full rite calls for," he tics his fingers as he counts off, "a rosary, holy water, a Bible--"

"Yeah we got all that in the trunk."

"Make Baby dance, Dean," you tell him.

"Will do."

---

The lights are on inside the tasteful brick two-story set back from the road in the middle of a stand of oak trees. The driveway's flanked by a couple of old-style lamps lit with yellow incandescent bulbs. You remember Dr. Jon telling you once that his botanist wife grew roses. "Her roses win prizes. They don't dare not."

"There's a garage," you report, sweeping the property with your binoculars. "We can paint devil's traps in front of the front and side doors. I checked and Dr. Jon's making hospital rounds. We've still got time before he gets home.”

Sam starts to nod but cuts himself off when a little roadster pulls into the driveway. From the silhouette, you’re guessing Missus Dr. Jon. “Dammit!” he hisses. “Now what do we do?”

“We need to intercept Dr. Jon before he gets inside. The last thing we need is a hostage situation.”

“Yeah. Agreed,” Sam says, opening his door. “Grab the spray paint.”

The Dykstras’ driveway’s been plowed to the bare asphalt. You and Sam paint a trap just up the drive. “You sure this’ll work when Dr. Jon’s driving?” you ask.

“No, but I don’t have a better idea,” Sam admits. He tests the paint with his finger. “Dry.”

You blow your breath out in a white cloud, slide your hands up your head. The pragmatic Hunter’s not coming to the fore like she needs to. If the worst happens . . . Lythalia can’t be allowed loose.

Your phone rings. “Yeah where are you?”

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Dean says as Sam comes up next to you. “There’s an overturned salt truck up ahead. I have no idea how long it’s gonna take to clean up.”

“Salt truck? Huh,” Sam says. “Ironic if you think about it.”

“Hilarious. Look, plan’s still the plan. Lock the bitch down and wait for us,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” you agree.

“I mean it,” Dean says. “Nothing stupid. Either of you.”

You look up when lights flicker up the road. “Just get here.” You hang up as you take cover with Sam behind a tree.

A silver Lexus slows and turns up the driveway. As the driver’s side sweeps into the trap, you burst from cover waving your arms. “Stop! Stop!”

The car jerks to a stop. Dr. Jon, wide-eyed, shows his bare hands. “Get out of the car!” Sam barks, pulling his pistol. “Nice and slow!”

“Okay! Okay! Cooperating! Keep the car! My wallet’s in my--” Dr. Jon’s eyes pop wide. “What in the name of Barishnikov’s toe shoes are you doing here?”

“Just stay put and do not speak,” you say. “Dr. Jon, if you can hear me, hang on. Help’s coming.”

“My God you really are insane,” Dr. Jon sighs. “Look, it’s not too late.” He reaches for you. “I can take--”

Sam grunts and Dr. Jon freezes. “Not another word. We’re just gonna stay cool--"

Lights hung in the trees snap on. “NANDITA HIDE IN THE BASEMENT AND CALL 911!!!” shrieks Dr. Jon.

“Jonny!” screams a woman’s voice. Ignoring your shout to stay inside, Mrs. Dykstra dashes out into the yard. She sees Sam holding Dr. Jon at gunpoint and screams, covering her face with her hands.

“Mrs. Dykstra go back inside,” you say. “We have the situation under control.”

“Don’t you hurt my husband. Please. We-- we have money, anything you want, just don’t, please,” she starts to cry.

Crying his wife’s name Dr. Jon lunges.

“Don’t move!” Sam yells but he’s too late. Dr. Jon catches Mrs. Dykstra just as her legs fail.

“Get away from her!” you snap, getting out your flask of holy water. Sam’s eyes pop wide and he says your name. "I said," you snarl, uncapping the flask, "get AWAY from her!!!" You fling the water and Dr. Jon cries out. Steam rises and something sizzles. "Run!" you bark at Mrs. Dykstra. She stumbles to her feet--

Sam grabs your arm as you go for your pistol, a knife, something, anything. "Look!" he snaps. "His skin's not burning! Look!" He shakes your wrist and more holy water lands on Dr. Jon's face. "He's not possessed. It's not him."

"What? Of course I'm not possessed! You people are fucking crazy!" Dr. Jon says, going for his pocket and pulling out a phone.

You slap it out of his hand, your mind doing the pinball machine TILT thing. "What the fuck?" you ask Sam.

He holds up a hand. "Okay, everybody calm down a second. What's the last thing you remember?" he asks Dr. Jon.

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Jon asks.

"Answer the question," you tell him, feeling yourself taking hold. Because something made your holy water sizzle and it wasn't the snow.

"I remember you throwing water on me after trying to jack my car," Dr. Jon says.

"Christo," Sam says. No reaction. "It's not him."

"Wait," you say, because you just got one mother of a bad idea. Sam gets it too, and you both turn to look at the terrified Mrs. Dykstra.

"You stay away from her," Dr. Jon says.

You shake your flask. "I'm empty," you tell Sam.

"Jonny help!" Mrs. Dykstra shouts as Sam goes for his flask. Snarling, Dr. Jon lunges for Sam and you go for Dr. Jon. The three of you go down in a heap of thrashing limbs.

"Look!" you snap, grabbing Dr. Jon by the cheeks and forcing his gaze up to his wife. "Christus miseracoriae!" and Mrs. Dyskra flinches, her eyes going to the solid whites. Dr. Jon freezes. Sam wrenches his arm free and the splash of holy water from his flask sears into Mrs. Dykstra's face.

Mrs. Dykstra straightens up. No fear, no tears. "That's twice," she says. "They really do get smarter as they get older."

"Let her go you whore," you snarl, and stars explode across your vision as Dr. Jon decks you. You fight free as Mrs. Dykstra turns a neat pivot and strolls back to the house. Sam's yell for you to wait goes in one ear and out the other.

---

You realize your mistake when you open the door on the Dykstra's tasteful home and cross the threshold of the big distempered farmhouse where your dad went to go drink with his friends. Your older cousins would come over and the bunch of you would try and find whatever fun you could in five acres of fallow farmland and empty barn, as your dads drank beer and told ethnic jokes. "If you're gonna fuck with my head,” you say as you creep through the entryway, “maybe pick something a little less obvious.”

"What're you talking about?"

You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it's Dean. "Christo."

He pulls aside his T-shirt collar and shows the tattoo. "All me in here. Wanna tell me where we are?"

"My Uncle Wes's place," you say. "Dad used to come here to get drunk on the weekends."

“My kinda guy.”

“Good God I hope not,” you say. "Where's Sam and Cas?"

"Back door. They'll meet us inside."

You nod, your head full of the smells of elderly beer and rotting wallpaper and cigarette smoke. Oh Christ, you'd forgotten that stink. You'd give anything to put your face against Dean's neck and just breathe, let his Alpha scent clear your head. "If dad had a scent this is what he'd smell like," you mutter to yourself.

"Scent," Dean mutters. The next thing you know your arm's twisting in a very counterintuitive direction. "Who are you?" he snarls at you. "Answer me!"

Crying out, you ragdoll. Dean's not falling for it-- why would he? Even when he's not trying to, he's watching you. Cataloging you. A part of Dean's brain is stuck in threat assessment mode even with people he trusts. Because you never know when evil picks faces you love. "Dean scent me! It's me! Please!"

Your shoulder joint fails and you gray out. When you come to, you're on the floor. Your left side's one big wail of pain. You test your shoulder, gritting your teeth hard enough to crack something. Strained, badly, but not dislocated or broken.

"Baby? Oh my God-- are you okay?" Dean's here, and his touch is gentle. "Answer me. Talk to me."

"It's not bad," you wheeze. "The demon-- it's riding Mrs. Dykstra."

Dean nods as he helps you to your feet. "Why the hell didn't you wait for me?” He seizes your face and gives you a brief, hard kiss. "Come on, we gotta get outta here."

"What? What if the bitch smokes out? We're gonna be looking over our shoulders until Judgement Day or thereabouts!" you stutter as Dean drags you . . . somewhere, not towards the door. "Let go! You're going the wrong--"

"Shut up," Dean snarls and your mouth snaps shut. He opens a door and--

"No." In the real world, that door led to a ground floor bedroom with a set of bunk beds and a crib. You remember waking up on an air mattress thrown on the floor more than once, when dad got too bombed to drive and you'd have to overnight. The furniture is gone; instead, there's a metal bed frame stood on end in the middle of the floor. Handcuffs dangle from the corners. There's blood everywhere, puddled on the floor, splattered on the walls. There's a rolling cart, instruments neatly lined up and ready for use-- pliers, forceps, a speculum, syringes, hoses.

"Are we prepared?" The hands trapping you aren't Dean's any more; they're Peg's. Dean's standing over the instrument cart, and looking at you with eyes gone terrifyingly blank. No evil, no pleasure, no feeling.

"Yeah. Bring her here. Let's get started."

You fight every inch of the way but Peg knows you, knows your every move and trick. Wrangling subjects -- never people, always subjects -- in for questioning is what she does, and she is very good at her job. The handcuffs ratchet closed around your wrists. "Dean! Dean, listen to me! This isn't real! Peg died when her appendix burst!"

Peg buries her fist in your side, just under the ribcage. Pain explodes throughout your body. Aim for the kidneys, not the balls, you remember Peg lecturing. The kidneys are harder to protect, no? You cough and gag and try your damndest not to start crying. Then Dean turns and oh God, the nothing in his eyes. "Not real. This isn't real."

"Not real," says a new voice, and Mrs. Jon walks in, "but completely true." She steps up to Dean's side and takes his arm. A light grip, a lover's caress. You growl and bare your fangs, and Mrs. Jon -- Lythalia -- smiles. "The Righteous Man lives for torment. His own, and others'. Such a vulnerable soul, yet such a deep capacity for pain. And your mentor, well," the demon's smile deepens, "you only know a fraction of what she's capable of. My brother would have enjoyed her."

"What do you want from me?" you demand, pulling at the handcuffs until you can feel them biting into the tender skin of your wrists.

"Who says I want anything?" she counters. "I don't particularly enjoy being incarnate. Corporeal. Bodies are so . . . demanding. But then the Styne whore called begging for help to-- what was the word she used?-- annihilate the Winchester brothers. She begged so sweetly, I just couldn't say no. And when I found out that you were slutting it with this fine specimen," she runs her fingers up into Dean's hair, "well, that's just delicious."

Dean picks a scalpel up off the table. He cuts the collar of your shirt and uses his hands to rip it down the middle. All the little tricks Peg taught you go by the boards and you shut your eyes tight like a little kid trying to unsee a horror movie. Dean's hand palms your jawbone, slips up the back of your head. You can't escape. Dean's your safe place and if he's there with a knife that's tasted your blood safety has no meaning any more.

"Monsters are outside of mercy," Peg says.

We are not the same as the things that we hunt, that same voice speaks in your memory. The Second Commandment, right behind Christ's order to love one another. We are not the same, and must fight, every minute of every day, to never become so.

You open your eyes. "Dean listen. Listen to me. This isn't you."

"Of course it is," Lythalia says. "One doesn't warrant my brother's special attention if one doesn't have a genuine feel for the work." She traces the back of a knuckle under Dean's jawbone. "My brother knew genius when he saw it." More caresses. "He's ours. He's always been ours."

"Bullshit," you refute flatly. Illusions, temptations. You won't give in. You refuse.

"It's the truth. Oh, he turns his monstrousness back on his own kind, but underneath? He is nothing but a bringer of pain. He turns everything he touches into meat and raw nerves."

"Bull. Shit," you repeat. It takes a lot out of you, but you meet Dean's eyes. Force yourself to confront the nothing in them. You know that nothing, it's the place you have to go to get the job done when the job scrapes against your basic sense of decency. And in Dean's eyes it scares the living hell out of you.

Scares. "It's not real," you tell yourself. "It's just shit I'm scared of." You start shaking as more of your clothes are cut away. "Not real. Not real. It's not real!" you scream, slamming your eyes back shut.

"Open your eyes or I'll cut your eyelids off." Not Dean's voice. Yours.

Somehow you're dressed and free and holding your pocketknife. The instrument tray's been replaced by a simple sewing kit, one with a faint maroon smear staining the nylon lining. There's blood on the blade, blood on the floor, blood on your clothes. You said that. You did this. The body hanging from the handcuffs is small, so small. It's barely recognizable as human.

A shrill scream pierces straight through your head. You pivot, bringing the knife up by reflex. It's your oldest little sister Amanda. You haven't talked to her in person in years. She hasn't spoken to you since-- Her face is chalk white and stretched wide in shock and she's clawing at her face like she wants to dig her eyes out. "Mandy--"

"Stay away," she says, shaky, and the wound on your heart cut when you had to leave home starts to bleed. You and Mandy were tight as . . . as . . . almost as tight as Dean and Sam are. Mandy was one of the things that kept you sane, those black years after your Presentment.

"Filthy breedwhore." Dad's eyes are full of horror and disgust as he pulls Mandy close, lets her hide her face in his chest. That chest meant safety to you too, once. "You slut yourself for monsters, you cut up little girls. Too bad I know your mother doesn't have an unfaithful bone in her body. I wish to God you weren't mine but it's too damn obvious to anybody with eyes."

Rage flares up and you grab onto it like a lifeline. "Fuck you bitch." You drop your knife. "This shit ain't nothing dad hasn't said to me before. I ain't playing."

"You look at me when I'm talking TO YOU!!!" Monsters and demons might as well exist, in a world that allows this.

From the deep recesses of your mind, something bubbles up. Worth a try. "Da upreknet tebya Gospod satana-- Tot, Kto vo slave voznessya na nebesa k Ottsu Svoyemu, vossedaya--"

A harsh bark of laughter interrupts your recitation. "You really think that weaksauce prayer's gonna send me packing? Me?" You open your eyes and the dilapidated farmhouse is gone, the improvised rack is gone, your father and sister are gone. You're in an elegantly furnished sitting room, with a small fire burning in the fireplace. The air reeks of Hell stink and peaches.

“Dr. Jon never mentioned his wife was an Omega,” you say. “That’s why I kept scenting peaches isn’t it? That’s why he specialized in secondary sexes?”

“It tears him apart to watch his wife go through her heats. Knowing he can’t satisfy her the way an Alpha can. He lives in fear of the day she meets her true mate.” Lythalia smiles with Mrs. Dykstra’s face, wide and toothy. “They both do.” Lythalia closes Mrs. Dykstra's eyes, inhaling like she's taking in the aromas of a glass of wine, or savoring the scent of a lover. "She goes to Chicago every few months, because there's an Alpha escort she pays to knot her. She stares at a picture of her husband the whole time."

“Why doesn’t she just get a hysterectomy?” you ask. You see something moving, through the archway into the foyer-- it's Sam, Dr. Jon close on his heels. Keep her talking, buy some time so’s they can trap the bitch. “I mean, Mrs. Jon can’t be more than a few years from menopause.”

“Exactly. They’re waiting it out, hoping their marriage doesn’t die first. It’s so sad. Knowing for a fact the person you love more than anything in the world has a priority other than you.”

You give her a look. "If this is you telling me Dean’d pick Sam over me every time, that’s not news to me."

"And that doesn't bother you? It doesn't make you insane, knowing your soul's chained to a man who considers you disposable?"

"Of course it fucking bothers me-- what kind of a question is that?" Come on guys, you think to yourself and hope like hell Lythalia's magic powers don't include mindreading. "The good stuff outweighs the bad."

"Oh darling," Lythalia sighs. "You only think that because you have no idea how bad the bad stuff truly is."

"Isn't that what that little demonstration was supposed to show me?" you ask. "You can't expect me to get horrified that someone being tortured in Hell turned into something dark. That's what Hell is for. Dean put himself back together from that, and there's nothing you can say that'll convince me otherwise."

"My dear sweetness," Lythalia says, "you only think he did." She makes a sweeping gesture and you and Sam both go flying. You slam into a bookcase and knock your head, hard enough to make bells ring.

"Hi Sam," you say.

"Hi," he greets you back. "Why the hell did you run in without me?"

"Oh, you know me-- Miss Adrenaline Junky," you snark.

"Sam knows a little better, what his Righteous brother became," Lythalia goes on. " Dean fought so haaaard when that angel came to drag him away, when I heard he gave Michael the finger I hoped he wasn't putting all that God-given talent to waste. But then I get topside and what do I fucking find?" The cheer slips out of the thing's expression and out of nowhere she swings a fist and shatters a delicate wood carving of the three Graces dancing in a ring. "He's gone SOFT!" She waves and you double over as that invisible chopping hand clotheslines you through the middle. All the tender parts below your ribs bruise and tear. "He meets you and all of a sudden he's Mister Happy Alpha handing his balls over to you in a little jade box!"

You choke out a laugh. "I don't got Dean by those or anything else. Sam might, I don't."

Sam gives you a look. "You're gross, you know that?"

Howling at you to shut up, the demon puts her hands together and whips her arms wide. You take off one way, Sam takes off another. As you shake the stars out of your vision, you see Sam squashed flat against the wall, the bones in his left arm bending to just the point of break. Sam's white as a sheet but his eyes are clear and sane and very fixedly not looking at you.

You glance over to Dr. Jon but he's gone. Probably hiding somewhere. That's good, if things go bad he shouldn't have to have a front row seat to his wife dying. Unfortunately your eyeballs are the only thing on you that move. The demon's got you cold even if it's not paying attention right this second. It's thinking out loud, musing on how it's going to make Dean maim and kill you both. Not that he's ever going to get the chance. You'll kill yourself before putting Dean through that. Shit way to go but it's not like there's many good--

You gasp as the hold on your body vanishes. The demon cries out. Steam rises from Mrs. Jon's body, you can see the bare skin of her midriff starting to blister as Dr. Jon lashes out with a rosary like some kind of half-assed whip. "Get out of my wife!"

"Wife?" Lythalia cackles in delight and Dr. Jon's eyes bug out and go blank. "See what she really does in the dark. Don't take it so hard, Doctor. You can't satisfy an Omega because it's not in their nature to ever be satisfied."

"Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas omnis incurso infernalis adversarii," you chant. Sam picks up your thread and gets out his flask, throwing holy water all over the place. Lythalia sneers and Dr. Jon cries out, awareness returning to his eyes. "Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica--" Mrs. Jon's possessed face twists, "adiuramus te, cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae perditionìs venenum propinare."

Snarling, Lythalia raises Mrs. Jon's hand and clenches her fist. You drop to your knees, blood bursting from your mouth.

Sam picks up the verse, "Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis."

"Chant in all the languages you want," Lythalia grins with all the cheer of a feeding shark, "I'm not going anywhere." Her fingers twist into a claw and Sam cries out.

"Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge," your jaw drops as Dr. Jon reads from a notebook, reciting the rite in painstakingly pronounced Latin, "invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt."

Lythalia jerks Mrs. Jon's body and Dr. Jon screams his wife's name. "This isn't over!" the demon shrieks. "He's coming and when he does we will watch you all burn!"

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine." You speak the last phrases with a tongue that feels like lead between your teeth. Your throat is full of slimy blood. "Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire," you have to cough the last couple of phrases, "te rogamus, audi nos."

With a long, throat-shredding howl Lythalia pours out through Mrs. Dykstra's mouth and sinks through the floorboards. Mrs. Dykstra collapses like a marionette with cut strings. The strength falls out of your body and you collapse.

Next thing you know, Sam's gently touching your back. "Hey, hey hey-hey-hey-hey-hey-hey. Are you okay?"

"Nandita?" Dr. Jon hasn't taken any notice of either of you. Every atom of his attention's focused on his wife. Slowly, he kneels by her side. She's breathing, but that in and of itself doesn't mean anything. Demons can do pretty much anything to their hosts during a possession. You saw one once that got off on causing pinprick strokelets and leaving their victims in permanent comas. "Honey? Talk to me."

"Jonny?" Her eyes flutter open, awake and aware. "Where am I? Why do I hurt so bad? Why am I so hungry? What's going on? Who are these people?"

"It's okay, you're all right," Dr. Jon says, pulling her close and kissing every part of her he can reach.

Sam -- bless him and his beautifully conditioned hair -- clears his throat. "Eagle Eye Security, ma'am. You had a break-in."

Dr. Jon gives you a gape-mouthed look; you give him a glare back and hope he has enough sense to defer to the professionals. "If you'll excuse us--"

"Of course, of course. Thank you." He waves you aside and his arms tighten around his wife, speaking softly into her ear.

Sam pulls you to your feet and you groan. Everything from the breastbone down hurts. The strength you need to pull your legs straight, support your weight, balance into walking-- it's not there. "Sam?" you say as sensation does something fucked up under your skin.

Sam looks down at you. Shock drops his face a foot. "You're bleeding."

"Don't feel good," you mumble. It's getting hard to breathe, like your lungs are shrinking. Numbness rises through you like freezing water. Somehow you're horizontal, Sam's big hand supporting your head as he lays you down on a table. There's an awful lot of yelling, you think, it's getting hard to hear. You scream when hard hands palpate your abdomen, it hurts.

"You got a knife? Gimme your knife! NOW, goddammit!"

---

It's cool in Dean's room but warm under the blankets. You're drifting in the peaceful place, not quite awake but not really asleep. One or the other of you forgot to set the alarm. You'll have to get up and face the day. Eventually. But not now.

Dean's barely awake too. His fingertips follow the long lines of muscle down your back. He makes an adorable sleepy little purr. An animal nature doesn't always have to be a bad thing. His heart thumps under your ear, slow and strong. Alive. For once, he's not running his everlasting mouth just to hear it go. Warm and safe. For just a few minutes, it's genuine peace.

---

Air shoves its way into your lungs and you convulse. Your eyes fly open and holy shit when did light get this bright?

"It's okay, you're okay, holy hell," Dean's on one side and Cas is on the other, each with a hand under one shoulder helping you sit up. "Deep and slow, baby, deep and slow."

"Fuck off," you cough. On a neck that feels like a rusty hinge, you sweep the room and count noses. Dr. Jon's pressed flat against the wall, and his hair is literally standing on end. Mrs. Jon's on her knees, picking up debris from what looks like a first aid kit. "Sam! Where's Sam? Is he okay?"

"Is he okay?" Sam squeaks from behind you.

You look down at yourself. Your shirt's missing and there's blood all over the place. "My blood. That is a lot of my blood," you note.

"You were bleeding internally," Castiel reports. "Dr. Dykstra was attempting to find and stop the source."

"Kiddo," Dr. Jon manages, peeling himself off the wall and trying to pull himself together, "your heart stopped. Your big friend here was keeping my wife from calling 911 and yelling for Castiel. He--" Dr. Jon's throat works on a gulp. "He threw me halfway across the room, laid a hand on your chest, and bingo. Incision gone."

"Oh my God," you manage. For a moment you don't see anything, not your family's anxious faces, not the bloody rags and instruments. Death was here, and turned away.

Dean pulls you back to Now with a rib-cracking embrace. "What the hell happened?"

"Ruptured kidney," Dr. Jon says. "The-- the demon that was possessing my wife, it--" Dr. Jon stutters on the T sound a moment, cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. "Sorry."

"She must've torn a blood vessel while she was throwing us around. You passed out and your blood pressure crashed," Sam finishes for him.

You try and take a breath and fold over on a fit of coughing. "How long was I gone?"

"Two, maybe three minutes," Dr. Jon says.

"Not so far gone I couldn't bring you back," Castiel says.

"Can I go insane now?" Dr. Jon asks. Very reasonably.

"Not unless I can come with you," Mrs. Jon says, her real voice low and lilting. "And Crazy is somewhere warm."

---

"How long?" Dr. Jon asks, as he follows you all outside to where Dean parked the Chevy.

"How long what?"

"How long have you all been--"

"Hunting? Since I was eighteen. These two," you gesture to Sam and Dean, "since they were kids."

Dr. Jon pulls in a deep breath. "I owe you an apology," he says, formally. "I'm sorry. I should've known better than to think you'd lie to me."

"It's okay," you accept the apology on everybody's behalf. "The truth's a lot to take in." You turn to Dean, who's obviously putting his rant away for later. "Do we have any spare anti-possession charms in the trunk."

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well don't go and get 'em for me or nothing," you mutter when Dean doesn't move. "Gimme the keys." You snatch them out of Dean's hand when he digs them up and head for Baby's trunk. They're in with the ritual supplies.

You can hear Dr. Jon's jaw drop when he catches sight of the arsenal. "Jesus Henry Tudor King Of England Christ."

"You okay in there Doc?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," he says, taking another deep belly breath.

You find the little medallions. "Here," you hand them to Dr. Jon. "Wear these at all times."

He peers at the flaming pentagram etched into the gray metal. "That's why you got a tattoo? It keeps demons out?"

"Yeah. Possession's something of an occupational hazard," you say, "especially hanging around this crew."

"Why?"

"That's a long story," Sam understates.

Dr. Jon looks between the boys, at Castiel. "If you don't mind my asking, what's an angel doing hanging around regular human people? And why do you look like my accountant's nerdy nephew?"

Cas looks down at himself, in his usual attire of navy suit and tan overcoat. Come to think of it you've never seen him wearing anything else. "Angels are incorporeal. This," he pats down his tan overcoat, "is a vessel. As to why I'm with Sam and Dean, they are my friends. And we share a common duty."

"Duty?" Dr. Jon asks you.

This one, you know the answer to. Cheesy as it sounds on the surface. "I think I told you I wanted to join the service before I Presented Omega, right?" Dr. Jon nods. "I do this because people like you have a right to feel safe from the fucking uglies. Because I don't want a world where everyone has to walk around armed to the teeth and throw holy water on their neighbors and stab them with silver to make sure their kids live long enough to have kids of their own."

"She's right," Dean says, and you don't realize how bad you needed to hear him say that until he does. "I've seen a world like that, and it's not a world you or anybody would ever want to live in."

"Okay," Dr. Jon says. He sticks out his hand. "Jonathan Dykstra. Pleasure to meet you."

You take it and shake, introducing yourself with a smile. "These are my friends and business associates, Dean Winchester, his brother Sam," each brother shakes Dr. Jon's hand in turn, "and Castiel you know."

"Doctor," Cas nods.

"Look," you say, "do you have your phone?"

Dr. Jon gives you a dirty look. "You broke it."

"Uh . . . oh yeah. Got a piece of paper?" Dr. Jon pulls out a memo pad and you start dictating. "Emergencies only. Most monsters react badly to exposure to silver, so it pays to keep a silver pen set handy," you say. "Letter openers are a good cover too. Tea sets, serving trays, stuff that's not out of place around the house or in the office. Demons flinch when they're hit with holy water or they hear the name of Christ."

Dr. Jon snaps his fingers. "That's why you kept yelling Christus miseracordiae."

"Yeah. Christo works too," Sam says. "I don't know about Eastern religions. I don't know enough about Buddism to know if there's a blessing that'll make demons flinch the same way." He makes one of his thoughtful faces. "Might be worth finding out."

"With any luck," you say, "you'll never need to call us. With anti-possession hardware you stop being targets for demons and monsters tend to go for easier targets of opportunity."

"My God," Dr. Jon says. "How many monsters got written off as serial killers?"

"Well--" Sam begins, his eyes lighting up with somebody-shares-my-obsession glee.

"Not now Sam, I'm freezing my ass off out here," Dean complains.

"What, I'm just supposed to go to work tomorrow? Like nothing's changed?" Dr. Jon asks.

"Yeah," you say, because some truths it doesn't pay to sugarcoat, "because nothing has."

---

Everybody's quiet in the car. When you get back to the motel Dean doesn't get out. Instead he says your name. "Get up front. We need to talk."

In other words, your ass-reaming was only deferred. You settle into the warm hollow Sam's body left behind, as Sam and Cas disappear into the motel room. They both give you concerned looks on the way. You wave them on. This ass-reaming is earned and you'll take it like a grownup.

Dean drives a ways away, takes an exit ramp, parks in the half-full parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts. He cuts the engine. The ensuing silence is . . . uncomfortable. Dean's handsome face looks like someone chopped it out of a rock.

"Please keep it short. I'm exhausted and my blood sugar's bottoming out," you say.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean asks.

"That I was an idiot? That I put your brother in danger? That I went in without backup or countermeasures or common fucking sense and that's unacceptable?"

"It is." Dean sighs. His hands curl around Baby's steering wheel. Like, you imagine, they want to curl around your stupid neck. "What happened? Walk me through it. Like I'm five."

You walk him through it, up to when you realized who Lythalia was using as a host. "I managed to get her to lay off the illusions when I spat some Russian prayers at her. Sam and Dr. Jon were able to get the drop on her and read an exorcism. She wasn't in a trap at the time though. She might've smoked out on her own. Current whereabouts unknown."

"Crowley might know."

"And what're the odds he'd be honest about something like that?"

"Crowley's a control freak. He doesn't like it when demons are doing things he doesn't know about," Dean notes.

"You know him better than I do," you concede.

Dean doesn't reply. He just keeps looking at you.

"This is the part where you say we can't work together if I'm gonna be so careless with your brother," you prompt, your heart breaking a little at the thought.

Dean's brows draw together. "That's what you think this is about?"

"I'm not blind Winchester. You and Sam are Us, everybody else is Them."

"That's not true."

"Course it is," you rebut. "I was stupid and I put Sam in danger--"

"Stop." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You think I don't think of you as family? Yeah. I'm pissed. I'm pissed because you put yourself in a bad position. You know better than that! Goddammit, you almost fucking died!"

"Coming from you that's hilarious, Mister We Were Already Dead," you retort. Maybe you're not as over that as you thought you were.

"That's not the same thing and you know it," Dean punts your attempted deflection aside. "If I don't get to quit on you, you don't get to quit on me either."

"I made a mistake! What do you want me to say, I'm sorry?"

"That'd be a start!" Dean snaps back.

"Fine! I'm sorry!"

"All right!" Dean takes a breath, takes hold. "And as far as not being able to work together, that's crap. You're one of the best in the game, which is why it frustrates me when you make dumbass mistakes."

"You're being suspiciously reasonable right now. I expected an ass-reaming. Hell I deserve an ass-reaming."

"I'm trying, okay?" Dean says. "I'm your boyfriend not your boss."

"Not quite true," you say. "This is you and Sam's rock'n'roll show, I'm just the flunky along for comic relief."

"Stop it."

"Yes sir."

"I mean it-- knock it off." Dean pulls in a breath. There are times when he's a neon sign, and there are times -- like right now -- when you'd have better luck reading the Sphynx. "What did the demon show you? Sam said when he got into the house you were screaming."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"She showed you me, didn't she?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Tough. What did you see?"

An unamused little chuckle huffs out of you. "You're a real fucking hypocrite sometimes you know that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, whenever I try to talk to you about what you might be thinking or feeling-- it's like talking to a wall. But you get your undies in a twist whenever I tell you something's none of your fucking business."

"Oh for Christ's sake--"

"Sam said when we all passed out outside the funeral home he had a bad trip and saw you dead. What did you see?"

"This conversation is over," Dean says. He puts his hand on the Chevy's ignition.

"Come on Dean. I'll tell if you will."

Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. Outside, a snowplow scrapes along the frozen asphalt of the parking lot. What time is it, for God's sake? Dead ditch of night, when time doesn't matter and the only things awake are the shadow people and the things that feed on them. As a Hunter, you know this time. Dean does too.

A honk and you both startle. It's a rent-a-cop in a battered Ford Focus, glaring at Baby like she offends him somehow. Scowling, Dean starts the engine and drives.

---

"I found Bella Styne. Live capture," Ketch's voice is coming from Sam's cell phone when you open the door to the motel room. “So far she isn’t talking.”

“How did you find her?” Sam asks.

“A camera at a petrol station caught her refueling. I caught up with her on the Interstate heading towards Chicago. She’s on a flight to London along with two of our better agents.”

“Did you check and make sure she’s not possessed?” Dean asks.

“Do remember you’re dealing with a professional, Winchester. Of course I did.”

“Awesome.”

“Thanks for calling to let us know,” Sam says.

“No trouble at’tall. Well as it is hideously late and I have an after-action report to write, I really must say good night. You’ll be mentioned in my report.” The line clicks shut.

“Dick,” you say.

“He’s right about it being late,” Sam yawns. “You wanna get a few hours shuteye before we hit the road?”

“Not really,” Dean says. “I’m too wired to sleep and I wanna get the hell out of Columbus. I think I hate Columbus now.”

“I second that,” you say.

“I’ll stay in the area,” Cas says. “Someone should watch over the Dykstras, in case the demon returns.”

“Fuck,” you say. “Near the end of the exorcism, Lythalia said, ‘He is coming.’ Do you think she meant the nephilim?”

“I’d say that’s a reasonable conclusion to jump to,” Sam says. “Which means it’s a race. To who finds her first-- us, Crowley--”

“Because he’s definitely in the hunt,” Dean says.

“--the angels, or Lythalia,” Sam sums it up.

“And that still begs the question of what do we do when we do find her,” you say, feeling that dread again. “I mean, we’re talking about killing a pregnant woman. Not even the lower animals do that.”

“That is not absolutely true,” Castiel says.

“My point stands.”

“We’ll worry about that once we find her,” is Dean’s final word on the subject. “Pack us up. We leave in fifteen.”

---

Once you get back to the bunker, you go through your post-case routine. Unload and clean your weapons. Take a shower. Write the case up, describing the target and any facts and impressions. File the report. Ignore the way your hands are shaking as lack of sleep catches up. Somehow process the fact that you fucking died. Keep ignoring the shakes. You can deal with the shakes on your own. Next door you can hear music, with the faint crackle that says turntable. One of the things you and Dean share; when in doubt, go for the Silver Bullet Band.

The bottom line is, as you stare at the bed you haven’t plucked up the wherewithal to turn down and get into, you can’t bear to be alone right now. Not with an empty-eyed thing wearing Dean’s face waiting in your dreams, to finish what it started in that farmhouse.

Dean’s light is on and his door’s ajar. He’s laying on his side, curled up a little like a kid. He’s awake though, you can feel it when you slide behind him. "You're a beautiful audience-- good night!" Seger yells from Cobo Arena in 1975 and the record player’s needle rises and hooks itself back on the stand.

That’s okay. Better, actually.

“She did show me you,” you confess. “I was handcuffed to an old bed frame, and you-- you were getting ready to cut me--" the shakes get worse, like an earthquake under your skin. “I know, when you were in Hell, you tortured. You came back from that, you made yourself whole again. I know that. So why can’t I stop shaking, shaking is weak, I am not fucking weak.”

“No. You’re not.” Without turning over, Dean says, “When the hellhounds came for me . . . time moves different in Alastair’s Keep. He can make seconds feel like years. He and his apprentices . . . they, they stretched me out, and cut. Carved. But I wouldn’t die. I was already dead. And Alastair-- he would tell me things. About Bobby getting torn apart by demons. About how Sam left the life and got married and was glad I was gone. About how people we saved didn’t stay saved-- collateral damage’s a bitch, he kept saying. And then when there was nothing left-- I’d be whole again. No pain. I’d be clean. You know how awful it is when you can’t be clean? I don’t mean like dirt, I mean-- I don’t know what I mean.

“Alastair would be there. Sometimes he’d cut himself. Pain fascinated him.” Dean’s voice takes an odd lisp. “’Very interesting, to feel the skin split from the inside.’ And he would tell me, that I could make it stop. Any time I wanted to. All I had to do was do to someone else, what he was doing to me. Thirty years, I told him to shove that razor of his up his ass. Thirty. Years. Then,” he says your name, the rasp in his voice so deep it sounds like his throat’s been packed with rocks, “I just couldn’t take it any more. I broke. Like a piece of shit glass. I picked up the knife. And I used it. And I liked it. It felt good. I’ll never forget it, and God knows I’ve tried.

“At first I could rationalize. Almost. Say to myself, ‘Hey, these are damned souls. They deserve to be here.’ But then Alastair started giving me people who’d sold their souls for other reasons. Like this one dude, his Omega was gonna die from pregnancy complications. So he sold his soul, saved his life and the litter he was carrying. Three healthy pups. Alastair slid right up next to me and said, ‘He left his mate, and their seven little pups, alone. In a world that’s . . . unkind to widowed Omegas. They live in squalor, and neglect.’

“I don’t remember what I did after that. I just remember . . . I cried, when it was over. Alastair, he fucking held me. He just held me, like I was a baby. Comforted me. And . . . and, I’m sorry, I can’t--”

“Dean.” You come up close but you don’t touch him. Instead, you reach around his head, offering your wrist to scent. Dean takes a deep breath, you can feel the wind of it. “Come back. You’re not there any more. You’re here, with me. It’s safe here. It’s okay. Come back to me.”

Dean doesn’t turn over. But he does take your hand. Soft lips kiss your wrist. The shakes start to ease. For a long moment, all is quiet. Then out of nowhere, he asks, "You tracked me down when I was a demon didn't you? I remember seeing you a couple of days before Sammy caught up to me."

"Yeah," you say. "I didn't believe what I was seeing. I mean, yeah, you looked like you but you didn't smell like you. Like, at all. I called Sam and he clued me into what was going on and told me he had it handled." And like an idiot you'd believed him. The next day, Dean was gone and by the time you heard the news Sam had him cured you'd been somewhere very much else.

"When Sam and I were tripping, I saw myself . . . what I might've done to you if you'd tried to take me down. Thank God you didn't. Because--" you hear him choke up.

"Stop," you say. "You weren't yourself then."

"I was though," Dean rebuts. "I mean, that's what Allastair would've turned me into if Cas hadn't rescued me. Why . . . why are you even here? I mean, I shouldn't even be touching you."

"Shut the fuck up," you tell him, and Dean freezes. "That. Was. Not. You. If it was," you say, "I wouldn't be here in the first place. The thing that was, it wouldn't have cared what I wanted or how I felt. It would've just broken down the door and took what it wanted, and I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it."

"That's not the point," Dean says. If there's one defining characteristic of your Alpha, it's his inability to give himself the benefit of the doubt when he feels truly at fault about something. "I wanted to. I wanted to-- you don't wanna know all the things I wanted to do."

"That is the point. You didn't do them. My mother told me once," you say, "there's our first impulse, then there's what we do. What we do is where we reveal who we are, and you, the real you, always put me first."

Dean's fingers tighten in yours. “Can-- can you just stay with me? Tonight? Just sleep next to me? I’ll totally get it if you can’t.”

You close the distance and press against Dean’s back. You press a kiss to the spot where his neck becomes his spine, take in his scent of leather and apples and chocolate fudge. “Just try and kick me out, Alpha.”

"I'm such an idiot, you’re in shock, fuck,” Dean rolls over. His eyes are tear-burned, so full of pain. His hand cradles your face. Dean has beautiful hands for a guy, strong, capable of such gentleness. You’re safe, under those hands. To your relief, that rock-solid conviction is unchanged. Despite Lythalia’s mind-fuck, despite Dean’s long and dark history of violence. If you died . . . you remember Cas telling you once, Heaven is a peaceful place created of a soul's most cherished memories. Dean's your peaceful place.

You put your hands on his face and kiss him. Deep and soft.

“Baby not tonight, I’m too tired,” Dean tries to pull away.

“Not sex,” you tell him. “Just . . . pretend I’m a girly wimp for a while and hold me, okay?”

“Not a wimp. You’re the farthest thing from a wimp I know,” Dean tells you, winding his arms around you. The warmth of his body eases the last of the shakes and you finally fall asleep. Later, when you start to dream, you can feel Dean’s there. Protecting you, watching your back. The image in your dreams has no power. It slips away and you dream instead of lying on the beach next to Dean under a blazing summer sun.

---

AN2: Spanish, "Mommy please help me!"

Russian, "May the Lord rebuke you Satan, He who ascended in glory to Heaven to his Father, seated--"

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