The Silver Bullet Murders

by Der Traumer

After having to kill Madison, Sam needed closure. Saving Delia was it. The second time.

1. The Silver Bullet Murders

A/N: Right… this is so going to get lost in this freakishly massive archive. Really, honestly, I haven't touched an archive like this since my Yu Yu Hakusho and Kingdom Hearts days, and that was YEARS ago. I find these pages and pages of similarly themed reflections stories kind of funny… never before have I seen expressions like hurt!Sam and brotherly!Dean in summaries. I can't decide if they're useful for sifting purposes or if I should stuff them in the same category as "I suck at summaries" and "please R&R". Y'all are an interesting crowd, but what should I have expected? Supernatural's a pretty interesting series.

Disclaimer: the entirety of Supernatural's cast and general storyline

Claimer: Delia and her story

Warnings: language, violence, underage drinking, distantly implied mature themes

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The Silver Bullet Murders

"Shot" was the C.O.D. on paper. "Shot" wasn't right. Unloaded on was more like it. Riddled with exactly six holes. Exactly six silver bullets recovered from the scene. Oh, and the best part? This was victim number six.

"Victim" to Dean meant human. He wasn't counting the five actual werewolves as "victims." Sammy would just say "deaths." So, eleven "deaths" in the last four days.

"So, whaduhya say, Sam? Hunter gone mad?" Dean lifted one hand to shade his eyes. Compared to the dim lighting of the morgue, the afternoon sun was brutal. He stuffed his other hand in his pocket to fish out the keys to the Impala. "Hell, if we didn't know the fucker was in jail," he opened his door and slung himself onto the leather seat, "I'd say our friend Gordon was behind this."

"He could've gotten out," Sam offered despondently.

Dean nodded his head to one side, turned one corner of his mouth down in a frown, and made a short noise of agreement. "Well, it certainly wasn't my job to keep tabs on him… You must know where he ended up, check for escapes?"

Sam twisted his body around to get his laptop out of the back seat, set it on his thighs, opened the screen, and paused, waiting for an unprotected wireless connection. Some rapid typing and doodling on the touch pad later, Sam heaved a sigh. "Nothing."

"Doesn't mean it's not him."

"Probably means it's not him."

They sat in pensive silence for several moments, each waiting for the other to come up with some brilliant conclusion and solution.

"Dammit!" Dean smacked one closed fist on the edge of the steering wheel.

"Doesn't mean it's not another hunter," Sam volunteered, as though his brother's outburst had suddenly enlightened him. "We should call Ellen – or Bobby – see if they know anyone working jobs around here." He was already closing his computer and digging his cell phone out of his pocket.

"And if it is another hunter, then wha'do we do?" Dean asked before Sam could dial either number.

"Stop them." Sam looked up from his phone to study his brother's profile. "What else would we do?"

"Well, hunters aren't much supernatural creatures, Sammy, they don't go bump in the night or anything. They're just people more or less, people are the police's – "

"Right," Sam made an exasperated hissing sound, "because if we're dealing with a rogue hunter, the police are totally going to be able to catch him."

Dean couldn't argue with that. He and Sam were living proof of law enforcements' severe lack of expertise when it came to tracking hunters.

"Just think of it like Gordon – "

"An extra psychotic, totally lost his damn mind, homicidal Gordon." Dean chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded.

"Yeah." Sam fidgeted with his phone as they pulled into the hotel parking lot. He'd call Ellen first thing once they were checked in.

vWv

The phone rang in Sam's ear three times before Ellen picked up. The Roadhouse must be busy.

"Hello," the garble of voices and music that muffled Ellen's greeting confirmed the thought.

"Hi, Ellen, it's Sam."

"Sam, hey, how're you and Dean doin'?" The excess background noise cut off when Ellen ducked out of the bar.

Sam smiled at the warmth in her tone. "We're doing fine. How're you? How's Jo?"

Dean glanced quickly up from the magazine he was sprawled on his stomach reading. Then pretended he hadn't.

"I'm alright. Jo's… well, she's Jo. Doing her own thing as is to be expected." Sam heard the sigh and could imagine the shake of Ellen's head that always accompanied such statements. "What're you boys up to? You never call unless you're up to something." Just as he could hear the grin in her voice, Sam could see the crinkles of laugh lines around the older woman's eyes.

"We're investigating some deaths in South Dakota, need to know if there are any other hunters out here."

"South Dakota's not a small state, honey, where at?"

"Uuh," Sam ran a hand up through his bangs and stared up at the ceiling as though the city's name would be painted there in nice neat orange letters to match the hotel room's décor. "Lead! Way west South Dakota."

"Hold on just a second, I'll have Ash check." Even though Ellen pressed the receiver to her chest, Sam could hear her pounding on doors and hollering for the mullet-headed genius. "He's putting on pants, I think, and getting right to it," Ellen explained a few seconds after the ruckus ceased. "What're y'all huntin' up there that's so big and bad you're lookin' for help? Want me to send some people?"

"We're not really looking for help." Sam tugged his hair again. "Someone up here's killing people… with silver bullets. Whoever they are they're getting werewolves, but there've been six human casualties." Sam laughed dryly, "Don't suppose you know any psycho werewolf hunters?"

"Well - " Ellen started to say something, but was cut off by Ash, talking so loudly Sam could make out a word or two here and there.

"Not anyone we know … don't think … neighboring … maybe … not real close … nah … how come?"

"Did'you understand any of that?" Ellen asked when Ash finished chattering.

"Yeah, I got the gist of it. Thanks, Ellen."

"Hold on, Sam, I got somethin' that might help. Couple weeks ago a little gal came through, I mean real little, too small to hold her own against much anything, let alone werewolves. She had boxes of silver bullets on her. Only know cuz she dropped one, spilled 'em everywhere. Dunno where she was headin'. I'd never seen her before and haven't seen her since."

Sam almost dropped his cell. "Did you get her name?"

"Her signature was an illegible scribble, might've started with a 'D'… or an 'O', sorry, hun."

"That's fine. Helpful even, I think. Thanks again, Ellen. Take care."

"You, too, Sam. Tell Dean to try and keep his ass outta trouble."

Sam chuckled. "Will do, bye Ellen." After he hung up, he dropped onto the bed beside his brother, and sighed.

"I think it's Delia. I think we're hunting Delia." His tone was somewhere between startlement and denial.

It moved Dean to push himself up onto his forearms. "What?"

"Ellen said a girl too small to be hunting came through there a while ago carrying silver bullets." Sam clasped his hands together and frowned.

"Yeah, but Delia, come on man. Delia? Can't hold her liquor, fits in kitchen cupboards, Delia? There's just no way." By now Dean had hauled himself all the way into sitting upright and was looking over his brother's shoulder as Sam searched and plotted the locations of the eleven deaths on his computer.

"Let's be real here, Sammy, Delia's what, like two bites for the average werewolf?" he tried to joke, laugh off the absurdity of the suggestion.

Eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed into a frown, Sam looked entirely too serious as he plugged away at his laptop.

"Sammy, come on." Maybe, if pressured, his brother would take it back.

"It's not like she doesn't have motive, Dean." Sam's denial melted into resignation.

"Yeah, but Delia? Really think about it, Delia?"

"I hope not, too." He punched a few more buttons than jabbed a finger at the laptop screen. "This must be the werewolves' hunting grounds. If she's still here – "

"Don't say 'she'. We don't know it's her." Dean stood up from the bed, went to the window, and pulled back the curtain. The shadow of a full moon was apparent against the sunset colored sky. "But yeah, it's the right time of month to be finding werewolf hunters on werewolf hunting grounds."

vWv

Bricks butted up against leaves. Apartment walls all but touched tree trunks. It was a place where civilization met wildlife and almost too perfect a place for werewolves to hunt. And dammit, Dean couldn't make heads or tails of the noises rattling in buildings and rustling in the woods. In dark alleys behind seedy clubs whose back doors creaked on rusted hinges, scraping claws on concrete and the growling canine breaths were easy to catch. Here, scraping claws could be a raccoon – Dean had already shot one of those – and the sounds of heavy breathing were overpowered by street sounds and woodland creatures. His vision was obscured by dancing tree branches, and the glare from passing headlights created extra unidentifiable shadows.

Dean smacked his flashlight against his palm in a fourth attempt to bring it back to life. He bet Sammy wasn't having these kinds of problems. Sam never grabbed the flashlight whose batteries were almost dead. Sam never…

"Shit…"

That was definitely a snarl. That was definitely a relatively human shaped shadow with an awful mane of hair, pointed fingers, and knees that bent the wrong direction. That was definitely a werewolf.

"Dean! Behind you!" Sam shouted as if Dean hadn't known.

Sam provided a life saving distraction clambering and hollering down a fire escape. The beast, distracted, lunged at the younger Winchester a dozen feet above its head instead of Dean. Its taloned fingers wrapped around wrought the iron railing. Its oversized feet covered in matted fur with claws for toes struggled to hook onto the landing. Sam backed away, pressing himself flat against the brick behind him.

The beast was a dangling target, an easy shot, and getting closer and closer to Sam with every minute it was allowed to struggle on the fire escape. Dean lifted his gun, bait be damned…

Shots rang out, fired from the rooftop behind him. The first hit the werewolf in the shoulder, forcing it to drop to the ground. The second split its skull. Three, four, five, and six were emptied into the motionless chest.

"Jesus Christ, over kill much?" Dean spun around. A silhouette squatted on the roof, head cocked to one side, the outline of a pistol braced against the outline of knee. And then the little shadow took a running start and leapt off the roof into the woods, crashing through branches.

Sam took the rest of the fire escape stairs three at a time, stumbling and leaping and making the metal rattle with such force that Dean thought the construction might rip itself free from the wall. "Come on, we gotta follow her!" He grabbed Dean's arm, dragging his older brother behind.

Frightened birds and small mammals scampered out of psycho hunter's path, and she left a trail of broken shrubbery in her wake. Easy to follow to her lair, a long abandoned mining tunnel with a crooked "DANGER: NO TRESPASSING" sign hanging above broken beams that used to block the entrance.

Dean lead the way, using the otherwise useless flashlight to knock aside cobwebs that had formerly been undisturbed by the cavern's short occupant. Sam followed, shining the good flashlight over Dean's shoulder, watching for hazards.

The entrance and the glow of the moon it let in were no longer visible when Sam and Dean heard the angry shouting. They rounded a corner, and there she was, the little hunter, trembling on hands and knees, gun a few feet from her right hand, retching up the contents of her stomach, growls and groans filling the spaces between heaves.

Across the passage, something laughed, a throaty, feral, definitely not human sound. The creature was bound to a chair. Restraints around its wrists, ankles, and neck glinted metallically in the light from the flashlight, and it bared rows of fangs when the light was shown on it. The beam revealed beady eyes, a bearded face, and shoulders and arms covered in more hair than was natural, even for a werewolf during the week of the full moon.

Dean shoved Sam back around the corner, stammering in hushed tones. "Sammy is that – I mean, there's no way she – holy crap, Sam…"

Sam's mouth gaped once and then again.

"Been nipped a few times too many, hmm, Delia, dear?" the monster taunted. "Full moon's starting to bother you, too?" Pointed teeth glinted in a predatory smirk.

Delia took a knife from her belt.

"Better be careful, Delia, you're going to end up one of us."

"Never," she rasped. "You son of a bitch, never."

"I wouldn't be so sure. Your canines already look a little too long, finger nails a little too sharp."

Delia snuck a glance at her hands and ran her tongue over her teeth. The beast howled a chilling laugh. "Paranoid now, are you Delia?"

"No," she snarled.

"Yes," it countered, "You're scared."

Delia snorted. "What's there to be scared of? You? You're supposed to be the baddest of the bad, a real live first generation lycanthrope, and here you are restrained like any other with some silver cuffs."

"When you're like me, you'll let me go."

"I won't be like you. I'll kill off all your kind. I'll kill you." She leaned in close to the monster. "And I'd sooner kill myself than become a filthy animal," she spat the word, "like you."

"You know, your mother called me an animal, too," it hissed, lips curling in a frightening parody of a smile.

"I'm going to kill you slow," Delia seethed like she hadn't heard him. "Cut you all over with this knife." She studied the silver blade before dragging it down the beast's arm. The wound bubbled; the creature growled and clenched its hand. "And watch you bleed." She leaned in ever closer, holding her face just out of its limited snapping range.

"Sam," Dean whispered, poking his head around to get another look at the arguing werewolf and hunter, "Wha'do we do?" The usual gun slinging, trigger happy approach was, obviously, out of the question.

Sam swallowed. "We gotta get her away… make space so we can kill it…"

"Yeah, sure, Sam, sounds great, but how the hell d'you suggest we do that? Is that even still Delia? Who's to say she doesn't stab whichever one of us tries ta'get'er?"

"I'll grab her then."

"Like hell you will, Sammy."

"You asked what I thought we should do," Sam snapped. He was already pressing the flashlight into Dean's hand, getting ready to bolt.

Dean held his brother's elbow. Sam whipped around to glare at him. "You're not getting yourself killed for a girl who might still be Delia!"

"And what if she is still Delia?"

"Dammit, Sam!" was Dean's best answer.

"She called me an animal," the werewolf sneered, not bothered by Delia's threat to torture and kill him, "when she begged me to change her."

"Sonuvabitch!" The outburst was loud enough to grab Dean and Sam's attention. Both heads poked back around the wall.

Delia reared up, knife raised, and struck the beast across the face with the blade. The motion knocked her off balance. She rocked forward, close enough that even in its restrained state one clawed hand could wrap around her wrist. Teeth snapped at Delia's other hand, and when she jerked it away, she dropped her knife.

Her eyes got wide. She struggled to yank herself free, but years of immortality combined with greater size rendered the effort futile.

"That's right," it hissed, "Fight me. You'll be worn out soon enough, and then you'll be mine."

"Delia!" Sam drew his own knife, lunged across the passage, plunged it into the arm that held Delia, which immediately released, and hauled her bodily away. They both toppled to the ground, Sam landing with an oomph, Delia on top of him, with his arm around her waist. She righted herself just in time to see Dean, snarling obscenities and damnations at Sam, draw his gun and empty it into the werewolf's chest.

Delia screamed, and struggled against Sam's hold on her. Three months of werewolf hunting had given her a little bulk, but not enough that she could wrench herself away from a body twice her size. Sam wondered off-handedly how she'd gotten that werewolf bound in the first place.

"Delia, come on! Delia! Calm down!" Sam grunted.

She clawed at Sam's arm around her waist with one hand and fumbled at her belt with the other. Sam snatched the searching fingers before they could find a weapon. The heel of a flailing foot smashed into Sam's shin. He hissed out through his teeth and jerked his leg to the side.

"No, dammit, no!" She tossed her head back and forth and between the angry denials, she growled and snarled. The top of her head smacked Sam's chin, and when he tried to lean back out of the way, his skull knocked into the tightly packed dirt of the wall.

Dean squatted in front the thrashing figure secured by his brother's arm, and smacked her across the face in a way he thought he'd never touch a woman. His justification being that at that exact moment, he wasn't sure Delia was a woman. "Delia! Snap the hell out of it!"

She froze, tousled hair shading wild eyes.

"Dean?" she eeked out. "Dean Winchester? How did you… what are you…" She craned her head to look over Dean's shoulder where the werewolf corpse was still bound to the chair, saw it slumped in death, and groaned. "You killed the best lead I'd had in months… asshole." And then she toppled forward, unconscious and held up only by the arm Sam had stubbornly maintained around her middle.

Dean glanced at Sam. His younger brother had a swollen right eye, a busted chin, and a split lip. He was gulping down air like he hadn't been able to breath for weeks.

"Now what?"

Sam took another deep breath and shook his head in the best 'I don't know' he could muster.

vWv 3 Months Earlier vWv

Uneven thuds of stumbling feet, occasional thumps of a body knocking into a paisley print wall, and finally the pound… pound… poundpoundpoundpound… on the door. Sam usually turned the knob and stepped out of the way, letting his brother's drunken legs tumble him onto the carpet. He would then nudge whatever parts of his brother didn't make it past the threshold the rest of the way into the room, offer apologetic glances to any guests Dean might have disturbed, shut the door, and amble back to his own bed.

Today, the Dean that greeted him looked a little too flustered to be properly wasted. The girl, who barely came up to Dean's shirt pocket, clinging to his waist, and batting her eyelashes at Sam attested as to why.

"Hiiiiii," she managed to slur even that one syllable of a word. When she lifted an arm to wave, she lost what little stability she'd had holding onto Dean, and toppled forward. Sam caught her shoulders and hauled her into the room, glaring at his brother the entire time. Sam sat the girl on his bed, where she promptly collapsed to one side, before he whirled on Dean.

"Seriously? Dude, she's like twelve!"

The half conscious figure on the bed behind him made a protesting noise that Sam ignored.

"She already had a drink!" Dean argued. "How the hell was I supposed to know she was gonna… gonna…" He tossed an arm in the direction of her prone form. "Gonna end up like that!? She was drinkin' those damn fruity girly drinks that come in itty bitty martini glasses or whatever! I didn't even know it was possible to get drunk drinking those! Shit man, and it's not like she gave me any warning. One minute she's askin' for drink number four and the next she's about fall off the damn bar stool." Dean was gesturing wildly, pushing at his hairline with his hands, and puffing out his cheeks in anxious breaths.

"Why the hell didn't - !" Sam started to yell back because Dean was yelling, then realized a shouting match, though probably merited by his brother's stunning decision making skills, would be entirely unhelpful at this late an hour in a hotel with paper walls. "Why didn't you just take her home?"

Dean a shoved a hand through his hair. "She wouldn't tell me where she lived, said she couldn't go home because…" Dean trailed off, left his fingers tangled on top of his head, and glanced at Sam, "You're not gonna believe this."

Sam was ready for anything: abusive father, mother, uncle, allergies to the family cat, exploding plumbing lines. Hell, he was more ready for Dean to tell him the girl lived in a box behind the bar than what he got.

"She says she lives with werewolves. And today is the first day of the week of the full moon."

For a moment Sam was speechless, then he burst into laughter. "So, you didn't just get a twelve year old drunk, you got a class one head case twelve year old drunk. Really, Dean?"

"Hey, Sammy, shut up," Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and studied his shoes, "And just help me figure out what the hell to do about her."

Sam squatted next to the bed and gave the girl a once over. She studied him back, but didn't move when he stuffed a hand into her front pocket.

"Woah, Sammy, I don't think that's the kind of solution I was thinkin'…"

Sam glared over his shoulder. "I'm looking for her wallet, dickhead."

The object in question was a simple black leather envelope holding six dollars and a driver's license. Sam sighed. "Not hers."

"Whadoyou mean, 'not hers'?" Dean inched a little closer to look at what Sam was holding.

Sam held the ID up to Dean's nose. "I mean unless in there somewhere," he gestured the girl, "is a five foot eight, thirty-five year old blonde. This is not this girl's address."

Dean muttered a dozen choice swear words, dropped into the less than comfortable lounge chair in the corner, and caught his forehead in his hands. Before he could get out an exasperated "now what?" the little figure on the bed squeaked out, almost so muddled by alcohol it couldn't be understood:

"Pleazze… you're, yer not… gonna make me g'home are you?"

Sam, still squatting beside the bed, turned his head to look at her. She stretched out a hand and touched his cheek. "Pleazze?" The hand flopped onto his shoulder.

"Not until morning anyway," he agreed, sighing, then dropped onto his butt and leaned back against the bed. "Dean," he looked pointedly at his brother, "You are so sleeping on the floor."

"Like hell I am, Sammy," he said around a mouthful of cold pizza, "You're the dumbass who put her in your own bed."

Sam hung his head. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean replied, grinned, and took another bite.

She gave them a grand total of ten minutes of peace and quiet after they turned off the lights. Long enough for Dean to be dead to the world under his blankets, while Sam still shifted uncomfortably in the lounge chair, very much awake when she rolled off the bed, hitting the carpet with a soft thunk and a whine.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam whispered.

His answer was a frightened little cry.

Sam uncurled himself from the chair. Even after that short time, the muscles of his legs protested. "Alright, alright, hang on, I'm coming." He wasn't sure why he was still whispering. It would serve his brother right to be woken up.

He found her in a ball beside the bed. She started to mumble incomprehensible questions as soon as he was close enough to hear her.

"Shh," he pressed a finger to his lips like he was talking to a toddler. "You just fell off the bed. You're okay. Come on, I'll help you up." He offered her his hands, but as he dragged her to her feet, she pitched to one side. Sam fumbled, caught her by her elbows, and just managed to set her on her feet. Instead of flopping backwards onto the mattress like he'd hoped, she tipped forward, arms wrapping around his waist, head pillowing itself on his chest.

"'S cold-d-d-d," she complained, clearly still very much intoxicated.

"Then get under the covers," Sam offered, trying with one hand to pry her hands off his back while the other turned down the blankets and sheets.

Her fingers fisted in his t-shirt; she pressed herself that much tighter against him, and shook her head with as much force as she could without lifting it away from him.

"Aw, come on, don't do this to me," Sam groaned. Sure, he could pluck her off him. It wasn't as though she was particularly large or strong, but he couldn't guarantee she wouldn't have some sort of break down if he simply tossed her back into bed and tucked her in. So, he started, as best he could with one hand – the other was keeping his charge from tumbling sideways and cracking her skull on the nightstand, because despite her death grip on him, she was terribly unstable – to pile pillows against the headboard.

She made climbing onto the bed difficult because she refused to release her hold. He had to awkwardly haul her by her knees and shoulders up with him, then move to lean back against the pillows, which, he found out, were not stacked high enough because he smacked the back of his head against the headboard. She heard the thud and peered up at him.

"Okay?" She cocked her head so far to one side she almost spilled off his lap.

"Yeah," Sam bit out, trying, but failing, to keep the irritation out of his voice, "Yeah, I'm fine."

He could see only the downturned corner of her frown in the sliver of light that got in through the curtains.

"Really, I'm okay." He forced a smile to prove it, and this must have satisfied her, because she nestled a little closer, put her head on his shoulder, and dozed off. Sam gingerly tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to let himself drift to sleep, too.

vWv

"Sam!" Strong hands had a hold of his shoulders and were jerking him up and down. "Seriously, Sam, what the hell were you thinking?!"

Sam groaned then went to toss an arm over his eyes, but found it trapped. Thoughts muddled, he managed to hoist himself onto the other forearm. "Dean? What're you talking about?" The curtains had been thrown open, and the light flooding into the room was too damn bright.

"Come on, man, that's stratu… err, statu… it's rape!"

Sam shook his head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean pursed his lips and his eyebrows knotted up above the bridge of his nose. He flung one finger in the direction of the girl: sprawled, figure half covered by blankets, across Sam's legs and chest, arms still wrapped around Sam's bicep, which explained why he hadn't been able to readily move it.

Sam groaned again, and almost flopped onto his back, if not for the fact that he was pretty sure he would crack his skull on the headboard again. His back twinged a little. He must have fallen to one side during the night. "She was cold," he muttered.

"She was cold!?" Dean hollered back. "Sam, are you kidding me? You lost your damn mind…? I mean – "

So Sam never had been very good at saying the right thing at the right time. He cut his brother off mid tirade by flinging the blankets back. "She's still wearing her shoes, dude, come on! For real?" Sam was all ready to start shouting back about how Dean was the one who'd brought her to the hotel in the first place, how if he hadn't gotten her drunk…

But at that moment, she chose to wake up. In retrospect, Sam realized it was rather dumb to have a shouting match over someone formerly drunk, now hung-over. First thing she was did was scream and take a swing at Dean, who, because he wasn't prepared for it, got clipped in the nose hard enough to make him snarl a curse and step back.

Then she noticed she was atop Sam, which inspired a frantic flailing of limbs still half tangled in blankets that almost sent her toppling off the bed. Dean would have let her fall; Sam, however, caught her around the waist, and nearly took a foot to the chin for his efforts. She screamed again and clawed at his face on her way up, and Sam clamped hand over her mouth before she could make more attention drawing noises. A tongue swiped across his palm, but really, like Sam didn't know that was coming. He had a brother after all.

"Calm down calm down calm down. We're not gonna hurt you." Fingernails were digging into his forearm and the disgusting, but harmless laving of a tongue on his palm was replaced by attempts to bite him. Sam gave up and jerked that hand away, wiping it on the blankets, and instead opting to clasp her wrists with it. The look he shot Dean should have killed him.

"Relax," he continued, "Just tell us where you live, and we'll take you home."

"I'm not going home," she snapped. "Just let me the hell go!" Out of better ideas, Sam released her, and she flung herself around, knocking Sam onto his back.

"What the hell – " Sam started to squeal, but couldn't finish because she pried his mouth as far open as it would go and proceeded to prod at his gums.

Dean snatched her about her middle and tossed her, quite literally, onto the other bed.

"Sammy, you alright?"

"Yeah," Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, while rubbing his jaw, "I'm fine."

His brother intact, Dean whirled around to holler at the girl. Before he could start yelling though, she apologized.

"Sorry," she murmured, staring at her feet and tugging at a loose thread on the blanket, "I thought maybe you were… uhm… well… Look, I'm just going to get going." She closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her thumb and pointer finger before standing.

"Your wallet's on the night stand," Sam told her.

She picked it up on her way out, leaving both brothers to glance between each other and the door, entirely confused.

Dean dropped onto the bed beside Sam. "Hey, uhm, sorry about that, Sammy, I'll, uh, I'll be more careful, about, well, girls, uhm, yeah," Dean ran a hand through his hair, "Sorry."

Sam fell forward with his forearms braced on his knees and looked at Dean, faced scrunched up in a 'wheels are turning' expression. "Yeah, you better," he agreed absently, then stood to fetch his laptop. "There been any strange deaths around here?" he asked, unzipping the case and taking the computer out, setting it on the desk, and turning it on.

"No… last I checked we were just stoppin' here because we were sick of drivin'."

Sam was too busy clacking away at the keyboard to say anything for a second, then he stepped out of the way so Dean could see the screen. "Four deaths, last night, bodies mauled beyond recognition, only consistency: hearts missing."

"That sounds like werewolves."

"That girl said she lived with werewolves last night, Dean, and she checked me for fangs."

"That's freaky."

"She knows where we can find the werewolves, Dean."

Both brothers raced for the door, tripping over and into each other the whole way, and as to be expected, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Just for the hell of it, Dean checked the parking lot out the window, but she was gone. "Dammit, she's our best lead. You know something, Sammy, if you'da just believed me last night when I told you she lived with werewolves – "

"Dude, no." Sam started pacing and pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes, like that would somehow help him think. "Where'd you meet her?"

"That pub on the corner – "

"Think she'll be there again tonight?"

"Sammy, how the hell should I know – "

"Doesn't matter, it's the best we got."

vWv

"Hey." The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up in a cocksure smirk. He leaned an elbow on the table and set his beer down, then raised one eyebrow when she turned her head to look at him.

She shifted nervously in her seat, foot hooking and unhooking around the stool's leg. "Uhm, hi."

"I never got your name."

His tone made her eyes get wide. Her fingers twitched on the stem of her martini glass, and she might as well have had 'please, tell me I didn't…' tattooed across her forehead. Dean backtracked, wondering just how many drinks she'd had the night before to turn her into the bubbling conversationalist he'd met.

"I'm Dean." He offered a hand, cut his swagger by half.

"Delia," she placed the hand that wasn't holding her drink in his.

"Delia," he repeated with a smile. A little less suave, a little more charm. "Can I sit here?" He gestured the stool across from her.

"Yeah, sure." She delicately lifted her drink and took a sip, watching him over the glass's rim the entire time. Dean thought for sure if he made an overly sudden movement she would bolt. He needed some kind of peace offering.

"Can I get you another drink?"

The one she had was still half full. "No thanks, I'm fine." She set the glass down, rested her hand beside it, pressing her fingers into the table top with enough force to make the nail beds redden. Wrong peace offering.

"You, uh, don't remember last night do you?"

She glanced at him sidelong. "No…" She took a longer drink this time, as though bracing herself for what he was going to tell her.

"You… you told me you lived with werewolves." He leaned toward her and took a swig from his bottle.

She sighed, but didn't look overly surprised. "Is that all I said?"

Dean stuck out his bottom lip, and cast a look up and to the right like he was trying to think of something. "Yeah, that was only thing of real interest."

"Sorry about that, sometimes I say crazy stuff when I'm drunk." She toyed with a paper umbrella, twirling it between two fingers, occasionally dipping it into her drink.

"You checked my brother's mouth for fangs this morning. I'm sure you remember that."

Delia traced nonsense patterns in the condensation left on the table. "Sometimes I do crazy stuff when I'm hung over."

"What if I said I believed you lived with werewolves?"

She quirked one eyebrow up. "You're crazy."

"I'd only be crazy if I let you sit here drinking yourself into a stupor while the people you live with kill other people."

Delia's drink sloshed onto the table. She jerked away from Dean, but he successfully snatched her glass, set it out of her reach, and settled back on his stool.

"Hey!"

"You're not old enough to be drinkin' these anyway. You're what, like twelve?"

Her eyes narrowed, and the expression said he had greatly undershot. "If I'm twelve, what the hell does that make you, asshole?" Then she stood up and stomped out of the bar.

A small person walked into Sam's chest when he opened the door. He caught her shoulders and took a step back, about to apologize – "It's you, hey, I need to talk to you for just a sec – "

"Like hell you do," she spat. "You and your brother can go get your shits and giggles elsewhere. Leave me alone."

"Wait… what?" Sam was stood stunned in the doorway. Delia ducked under his arm, and into the sunset lit parking lot. He didn't have the time to ask Dean what he'd done. Their best lead was wandering off alone into the night on the second day of the week leading up to the full moon. Sam dropped the door and jogged after her, grabbing her arm when he got close enough.

She immediately ripped it free and spun around. "Where do you get off on this? I'm sorry I caused you guys so much trouble this morning. I'm embaressed about my behavior last night. Jesus Christ, now would you please just leave me alone?"

"I'm sorry. About whatever Dean said, I'm sorry."

"Huh?" A little bit of her defensiveness melted away.

"He can be an ass sometimes, I'm sorry." If he crammed as many apologies as possible into the next thirty seconds, maybe she'd listen.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Apology accepted, I guess." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and peered up at him.

"Sam." He offered her a hand that she didn't accept.

"Delia," she answered.

"Delia, my brother and I, we sort of need your help – "

"Oh Jesus, if you say werewolves, I swear to God, I'm going to punch you in the face and walk away."

Sam shoved his own hands in his pockets, opened his mouth, and made a thoughtful "uhm" noise. He let his mouth gape a time or two more, trying to begin the explanation without actually using the word "werewolf", while Delia watched him, one hip cocked, one eyebrow arched, hands still in her pockets.

"You must have heard about all the murders last night?"

She frowned. "I thought they were animal attacks…"

"Yeah, uhm, have you maybe seen it – "

"You're a dumbass, I'm going home." She turned on her heel.

"You told Dean you didn't want to go home, all but begged me not to take you home last night."

She stopped, but didn't turn around. "I say stupid things when I'm drunk."

"Why'd you tell Dean you lived with werewolves?"

Her shoulders shrugged in a visible sigh. "I say stupid things when I'm drunk," she repeated.

"Really? Because in my experience, people are their most honest when they're – "

"Yeah, well, I'm not 'people'," she bit out over her shoulder, "And you're insane. Bye." And she started to walk off.

"Delia! Wait!"

She waved goodbye with one finger. "Go find some other girl to harass with your werewolf bullshit."

Sam reached a hand around to touch the gun, loaded with silver bullets, tucked into the back of his jeans, and dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket with the other. He dialed Dean, and whispered, "She's leaving. I'm following her."

A few moments later, though he couldn't see him, Sam was aware of his brother a few paces behind.

Delia kept to relatively well lit sidewalks and streets, making tracking her inconspicuously difficult, and she kept checking over her shoulder, though whether it was because she knew Sam was ducked behind a plant or because she was afraid of being ambushed by a hungry werewolf, he didn't know.

Sam heard low growling first. And then the click of claws on the pavement, but he couldn't see anything beyond the ring of light from the streetlamp. Delia did a one-eighty looking for the noises, too, and saw Sam before he could duck entirely into the shadow of an apartment complex.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

Sam eased out of the shadows, hands up, grinning sheepishly. Delia put her hands on her hips. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't call the police right now."

It lunged out from behind a parked car.

"Delia, get down!"

She almost didn't duck in time because instead she turned to see where Dean's voice had come from. He fired three shots over her head. She screamed and dropped onto to her knees with her hands over her ears. One bullet caught the monster in the shoulder, the other two pinged off cars. It snarled, Delia forgotten, and charged at Dean.

Sam's first shot was a through and through the werewolf's chest. The beast made a gurgling noise and collapsed on the ground.

Sam was tucking his gun away and going to Delia when the second one leapt off a car, snatched her around her middle, and bolted. Dean emptied his gun after it. Sam fumbled to get his back out.

"Werewolves, Sammy, she lives with more than one."

"Yeah, okay, got it." He raised his weapon, but by now could no longer see the creature, only hear Delia's cries for help.

Dean stuffed the empty gun into the waistband of his jeans, and took out a second. "Keep screaming, honey," he muttered, "it's the only way we're gonna find you."

They followed the monster to a two story house with a front porch and a driveway lined by flowering plants, in a neighborhood of other similar houses, at the end of a cul-de-sac. The werewolf let itself in civilly, through the front door, no shattering of windows or destruction of hinges, with Delia kicking and screaming on its hip.

"This is just trippy," Dean whispered, inching up to the door, turning the handle, and letting it fall open. Delia was still shouting, and Sam caught a glimpse of her foot going up a staircase. They rushed after her.

It heard them, turned and bared its teeth, and hurried faster up the stairs, down the hall, and through a bedroom door, which it slammed shut. Dean it kicked it down, gun ready.

It was sitting on the bed, Delia flailing in its lap, but unable to get free of its grip on her shoulders.

And blocking any prayer Dean would have had for a clean shot.

The werewolf opened its mouth over the back of Delia's neck, and when she felt the rancid breath wash over her skin, she keened and strained to get further away. Her teeth were clenched, and her eyes and nose were swollen from crying. "Stop it," she whined, "Please, don't do this, please." She sniffled and choked on a sob.

Sam fired.

Delia felt the bullet graze her arm at the same moment she felt the first tooth break her skin.

It howled and released its hold on her. She tumbled onto the floor, and Sam risked close proximity to the monster to drag her the rest of the way away. Dean unloaded his gun into its chest. The snarling and snapping suddenly ceased, leaving in their place the gurgling last breaths of a teenage boy, fangs and claws retracted. He appeared frighteningly human. Dean had to look away, choosing to instead focus his attention on Delia, face pressed into Sam's chest to muffle her sobs.

Sam adjusted Delia so she was more comfortably braced against him. "Shh," he soothed, keeping a firm hand on her back while the other pushed her hair off her neck. There was a bleeding puncture at the juncture of her shoulder and throat. His own throat constricted. "Dean," he whispered, tightening his hold on Delia, "Does that count as a bite?"

Dean leaned over to look for himself. "I… uhm… Sammy, man, I don't… we'll take her back to the hotel, wash it out real good, maybe."

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded. "Come on, Delia, we're gonna get you outta here." He used the wall as leverage to get to his feet, bringing Delia up, too, with an arm around her back, then bent to grab her around her knees and hoist her into his arms. She eeked and blinked wet eyelashes at him.

"I… I can walk." Her voice was raw.

"Yeah, I'm sure you can. I gotcha anyway."

Too tired to protest, she let her head drop onto his shoulder. "You know there are more, right?" she murmured.

They paused, half way to the stair case.

"How many more?" Dean asked.

"Two. My mom… and little sister…" Sam squeezed her shoulder. "That… that was my brother…" she sort of gestured back to the bedroom, "and the one before that was his best friend…" the words started to trail into tears.

"Shh, it's okay. It's gonna be okay." Sam rocked her like a frightened child. He was lying through his teeth. Nothing was ever okay after you lost loved ones to the supernatural.

Dean saw the anguish written plain on his brother's face. "Take her back to the hotel. I'll deal with the other two."

"Dean – "

"You don't get that washed out, she's as good as dead. Sam, go." His tone left no room for argument.

"Be careful, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, always am. Now, scram." And Sam left.

vWv

Delia sat on the bed studying her hands clasped between her knees, silent as Sam talked to Bobby in hushed tones in the bathroom. When he came out, she looked up at him expectantly.

"I'm not stupid," she told him, voice still a little hoarse, "I know when werewolves bite people they change into monsters. Sam, am I – "

He wouldn't let her finish, just couldn't. "Not if I have anything to say about it." He set a bar of soap and a damp washcloth on the bed beside Delia, then went to his pack and took out a silver table knife. He sat behind her and pulled her hair over the shoulder opposite the bite, then wiped at it gently with soap and water. After a few moments, he set the cloth aside. "I, uhm, don't have any silver powder, which is what Bobby recommended. This, this might hurt a little." Delia's shoulder tensed under his hand. "No," he squeezed the taught muscles, "that'll make it hurt more." He picked up the dinner knife and pressed just the tip into the puncture. Delia keened brokenly. She grabbed at Sam's fingers with one hand, the blankets with the other. Sam pressed his hand into hers, letting her squeeze his palm with all the force her little hand could muster, not even enough, he imagined, to bruise, then pushed the silver in a little further. Delia howled and her head thrashed, almost dislodging the knife.

"Hurts," she whimpered, "Burns so bad."

"I know," Sam sighed, resting his cheek on her head. "Just a little longer."

Delia continued to whine for another full eight minutes. Sam was counting. And when she finally ceased, he asked, "Still hurt?"

"Not any worse than having a dinner knife in your neck should hurt," she bit out, then heaved a deep breath.

"Good to hear." Sam withdrew the silver, hoping hard that it had done as intended and neutralized the toxic werewolf saliva. "Now, let's get that arm patched up."

"Right…" Delia nuzzled his shoulder sleepily, clearly not worried about the bullet wound.

Sam was so relieved, he almost chuckled.

When Dean got back to the hotel, a sweaty, rumpled mess, Delia was asleep, wearing one of Sam's button downs and a pair of flannel pajama pants that trailed a full foot and a half past her feet. Her clothing, Dean had no problem with. Her location wrapped around a pillow in the center of his bed, that was simply not okay.

"Seriously, Sammy?"

"Seriously." Sam was propped on one elbow, under the covers in his own bed, wearing an amused smirk.

Irritated as he was about the bed situation, that grin was a good sign. "She gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Dean took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair, then peeled off his t-shirt. "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"You know we still gotta keep an eye on her. We won't know for sure – "

"Yeah, I know. Go to bed, Dean."

vWv

"The door's locked." Delia looked over her shoulder at Sam and Dean, standing at the bottom of the porch stairs.

"Well, don't you have a key?" Dean asked, then glanced into the cul-de-sac behind them for the tenth time, "It's your house."

"It's supposed to be right there," Delia huffed and tossed her hand in the direction of the paving stone she'd overturned.

"You mean you don't carry one?" Dean hissed, taking a step closer.

Delia took a deep breath, like she was readying herself to snap at Dean. "I got it," Sam nudged his way past his brother, taking an "L" shaped wrench out of his pocket on his way to the door. He got down on one knee, studied the key hole, stuffed it in, and jiggled it around for a few seconds. He replaced the wrench in his pocket, and Delia tried the door. The knob turned; the door opened.

She gave Sam a sort of surprised face, smiling even though her eyebrows were knit together. "Thanks, I'll just be a second."

"Hey, no problem." Sam shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. The corners of Delia's mouth twitched in a little more warm, little less confused smile, and she closed the door behind her.

"Maybe if you sit and give her your paw she'll give you a bone," Dean snickered and joined him on the porch.

"Shut up, Dean."

"I'm just sayin', Sammy." Dean paused, then turned to his brother and grinned. "You're so into her."

"Dude, seriously?" Sam tossed his hands away from his sides even though they were still in pockets. "Have I not said she looks like a twelve year old?"

"Please?" Dean snorted, "With, uhm… endowments like that," he made a cupping gesture in front of his own chest and clicked his tongue, "So what, she's a little short? She's got that whole 'independence' thing you're so into."

"Dean!" Sam let out an exasperated sigh. "Good for you, now I know exactly why you – "

Delia screamed.

Sam and Dean busted through the door so fast, they nearly tripped over her, where she was sprawled against the wall opposite the coat closet. She'd had an armful of clothing, which was now scattered over the foyer. One hand clutched her heaving chest, while the other covered her eyes. On the floor a few feet away was a rotting, mauled body of probably a human, that had toppled out of the closet.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Delia gasped, letting her arm fall away from her face, "that scared the shit out of me."

"Dead things," Dean shrugged, "Usually do." He toed the corpse, "Surprised the cops didn't find this sucker. God, he reeks." He wrinkled his nose, and Delia's eyes got horrified wide.

"Seriously, that's what that – oh God…" Her throat and stomach clenched, her whole body pitched forward a little. "Oh God, I thought it was just the trash hadn't been taken out in a while," she bit out, then gagged. She dragged herself to her feet with the corner of a table. "I'm just gonna go get some air," she breathed, "I'll be right back for those." She made a fleeting gesture at the clothes, then stumbled out the door. It slammed closed behind her.

Sam bent to pick up a t-shirt, folded it and draped it over his arm, then picked up a pair of jeans.

"Aww, good boy, Sammy, want a biscuit?"

Sam glared up at Dean, but continued collecting clothes. "Jerk."

"Bitch, definitely." Dean smiled and patted Sam on the head on his way out.

Delia was bent over, hands on her knees, gulping up harsh breaths. "You okay?" Sam asked and stretched his arm with the folded clothes out in front of her.

Delia took them from him and held them to her chest. Her face was flushed, but she managed a small smile. "Thanks," then glanced down at her toes. "Hey, sorry about that. It's not like I've never seen a dead body before. It just startled me is all."

"Excuse me?" Dean craned his head to look around Sam.

"Yeah, I mean, I did live with four werewolves after all."

Dean was reaching for his gun, the accusation of 'you're one of them aren't you?' already on the tip of his tongue. "For how long, Delia?"

His tone made Delia take a step back; her face crinkled with confusion. "A… a month, why?"

"How many people'd you let them kill, Delia?" he demanded. He was holding his gun, just hadn't taken it out of his waist band. Delia took another step away from him, sidestepped into Sam.

"Dude, what the hell?"

"How many, Delia?" he repeated.

"Dean, back off!"

"Or maybe I should ask how long you've been killing people, huh, Delia? Helluvan act you've been puttin' on!" he growled.

"Dean, we've both seen the back of her neck…"

"Fine, then she's was keepin'em as pets!"

"Dean, shut up! That doesn't make any sense – "

"They dragged bodies through the kitchen for three days!" Delia shouted, then turned to press her face into Sam's chest.

Sam gave Dean his best 'way to go' look. He cradled Delia's head with one hand and stroked back her hair so she'd look at him. "What happened?" he asked gently.

"We're standing and screaming at each other on the front lawn of a crime scene," Delia dodged the question. "We should get going."

"We're not going anywhere until you tell us what the hell happened, Delia." Dean narrowed his eyes.

"Dean…" Sam gritted his teeth.

Delia glared right back at him. "Fine, but at least let's get in the car. It's not like your stupid Impala hasn't drawn the whole damn neighborhood's attention anyway."

Dean started to bite out a retort, but Delia was already stomping to the car. She shut the door before Sam could follow her into the back seat. He climbed in the passenger door instead, Dean into the driver's side, and they both turned around in their seats to look at her.

Delia crossed her arms over her chest and glared out the window for a moment before explaining, "I spent the three days leading up to last month's full moon hiding in a kitchen cabinet. I could see them… mauling bodies, ripping out hearts, the works, through the gap between the cabinet doors. Scared enough to piss myself doesn't even begin to describe it." She sort of smirked and folded her hands in her lap. "After that, there's no way a dead body or two should bother me."

"Delia…" Sam started to offer sympathy.

"How come they didn't find you?"

"Dean, seriously, let it go."

Dean ignored his brother. "Those beasts have wicked senses of smell, how come they didn't find you?"

"Smell of kitchen chemicals covered me up, and they don't like all those harsh smells anyway. Wouldn't get within two feet of that cabinet."

"There, Dean, you happy now?" Sam demanded.

"Yeah, okay, fine. Let's get going." He all but slammed the gearshift into drive.

Delia didn't say anything else until they pulled into the hotel parking lot. "Look," she started, backing out of the car and dragging her clothes with her, "I'm just gonna grab my little bit of stuff from the room and be going." She straightened up, shook her hair out of her face, and looked at Sam. "I appreciate all the help, but, yeah I need to get away from this place."

"Well, you can't," Dean snapped. He let himself into the room and slammed the door.

Delia looked at Sam, who was studying passing clouds.

"You can't be serious."

Sam shrugged and looked sheepishly down at Delia. "I'm sorry."

"How come? Why the hell can't I leave?"

"That thing I did to your neck last night, we're not sure if it'll work, so we havta watch you to be sure – "

"Oh God." Delia crumpled to her knees beside the car. Sam rushed around to catch her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders while she leaned into the door. "You mean there's still a chance I'll end up like that?" She looked at Sam, pleading.

"No." He shook his head forcefully. "No. I mean… probably not." He lied.

"How long until you're sure?" she murmured, pushing herself to her feet with a hand on the hood. She readjusted the clothing in her arms and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Not until after the full moon."

"And I have to stay here with you until then?"

"That was the only plan we'd come up with."

Delia sighed. "With Dean, too?"

Sam tried not to chuckle. "He just hates being wrong. He'll finish being pissy soon, and then he's not so bad." She gave Sam a skeptical raise of an eyebrow.

vWv

Several beers and half a pizza later, Dean was significantly less pissy. And after a six pack of hard lemonade, that Delia had convinced Dean to buy her (notably while Sam was out getting ice) after beer number three, Delia didn't seem to mind Dean so much either, leaving Sam to sit on the bed Delia wasn't bouncing on and tinker with the hotel radio while wondering what a drunk werewolf was like.

Apparently, Delia shared Dean's love of bad eighties music, and the pair were threatening to serenade him if he didn't get the radio fixed. Dean was already humming, and Delia was crooning something, too, though Sam didn't think it was the same song. He poked around inside the radio again. At least, he supposed, they were getting along.

By night number four, Sam had fixed the radio, and had not allowed Dean to purchase any alcohol for the age uncertain, but definitely not twenty one, Delia. The reduced amount of alcohol had not bettered the quality of singing. The people next door complained. Dean and Delia sang louder to overpower their beating on the walls.

Night five, they rented movies, and didn't finish a single one. Dean didn't understand the drama Sam picked. Dean bitched through the entire first hour of Delia's romantic comedy. And after the third head exploded in Dean's movie, Sam turned the television off, asking how Dean could watch that stuff on tv when he saw it in real life on a regular basis. Dean had actually tried to explain the merits of the movie around a mouthful of Chinese. Delia, complaining of a stomach ache, had already fallen asleep, curled up at the foot of Dean's bed.

On night six, Sam decided that whatever Delia might do, it wasn't going to be so bad they couldn't handle it in public, and suggested doing something like bowling or mini-golf. Dean had scoffed at both ideas, all ready to suggest going to a bar instead, when Delia had said she wasn't feeling so good and would rather stay in. Sam asked if there was anything he could get her, and she answered by pulling a roll of chewable antacids out of her pocket. , "You and Dean go hit up a bar or something, though, you've been cooped up in here all week." Sam hadn't been keen on the idea, but Dean convinced him to just leave his cell in case Delia needed anything. When they got back, she was asleep on the bathroom floor.

"She can have my bed," Dean offered as Sam scooped her up and was about to tuck her into his own bed.

"She slept in your bed last night."

"Yeah, well, whatever, I'm feeling charitable. Hurry and get her snuggled in before I change my mind." He changed his t-shirt, dragged his jeans off, and made himself comfortable in the lounge chair.

On the seventh night, the night of the full moon, Delia was miserable, locking herself in the bathroom for twenty minute periods every hour. Sam and Dean could hear her dry heaving and retching. Every time she came out, she looked a little paler and her eyes a little more bloodshot.

"I'm going to go get a ginger ale and some ice," she said coming out of the bathroom for the third time.

Sam dropped his book on the nightstand. Dean closed his magazine. Both got to their feet. "Hey, no, you should just lay down." Sam took her by her shoulders and guided her toward the bed. Delia shrugged off his touch.

"I got it, Sam. I'm stiff. Been in here all week. Need to stretch my legs a little."

"Sam's right, Delia, you should rest. I mean, really, you're not looking so good."

"Sam, Dean, I'm fine. I'm going to get some ice and a soda. I'll be right back." And then she was out the door with the plastic ice bucket in hand.

"How long do we give her?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes? How far away's the ice machine?"

"Ten minutes, and we go find her."

Delia fed her dollar into the soda machine and put the bottle in the front of pocket of the sweatshirt she was borrowing from Sam (it was bigger and cozier than any of hers) so she could use the ice machine. After attempt three and one solid kick, the machine still spluttered out only cold water, so Delia made her way to the front lobby, explained the problem to the clerk, and headed back to the room, where undoubtedly Sam and Dean were pacing with worry…

…in the hallway.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for you."

"I just went to the front desk. The ice machine was broken. Eash, I wasn't even gone that long."

Both brothers looked suitably embarrassed and let Delia lead the way into the room, where she promptly collapsed across Dean's bed, both hands on her soda bottle, but seemingly unable to open it. She sighed and let Sam pry it from her fingers, twist the cap off, and hand it back. She even accepted the shoulder he offered her to lean on when she swayed upon sitting up.

"I feel like crap," she mumbled around the neck of the bottle.

"It's a full moon thing."

"Is this going t'happen forever?"

"Yeah, probably."

"And I thought cramps were bad."

Sam laughed. The soothing low rumble made Delia close her eyes.

Pounding on the door startled her so bad she dropped her open soda and spilled it across the carpet. "Shit!" Delia snarled.

"You gonna let Dean or me get the next one?"

Delia shrugged and half grumbled, "probably."

Dean answered the door.

"Good evening, sir," the officer in the doorway flashed his badge. "We're looking for Delia Charleston."

Hearing her name, Delia sat up. "Yessir?" she peeked around Sam.

"Ms. Charleston, you are under arrest on spuspician of involvement with the deaths of Gregory Charleston, Dana Charleston, Alaina Charleston, Jeffrey Charleston, and Clifton James."

"The hell is going on?" Dean demanded and stepped in front the second officer, working his way into the room to collect Delia. He flung out an arm, pressing his palm against the wall, blocking the other man's path when he tried to duck past him.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step aside." When Dean didn't move, the officer grabbed the offending arm and twisted it behind his back, then shoved him against the wall. "Sir, do you realize I could have you arrested – "

"Like hell – " Dean wrenched himself free and drew an arm back to punch the man.

"Dean, give it a rest." Sam caught his brother's elbow and tugged him back from the door so Delia could squirm past to join the officers.

"No, I'd rather you didn't cuff me," she requested meekly, backing against the wall and crossing her wrists behind her. "I'll go, it's alright." She glanced at Sam and Dean. The first officer grabbed her just below her shoulder, spun her around, and cuffed her anyway.

"You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be…" he snarled her rights in her ear. Delia whined.

"Hey, you asshole, be gentle!" Dean hollered, breaking free from Sam so he could shake a fist out the door.

"Dean!"

"What Sammy?" Dean whipped around to face him. "'Cuz I'd really like to know what the hell we're doing letting them drag her off." He flung an arm out to gesture in the direction of Delia and the police officers. "We can take 'em, dammit, drive off and be just fine."

"And make Delia into a fugitive? I know that works great for us, man, but don't you think we should ask Delia first if she – "

"Alright, alright, you win!" Dean threw his hands in the air, took a step away from Sam, and made a woordless angry noise. "What's the plan, Sammy?"

Sam dropped onto the nearest bed. "Do you think they found the bodies?"

"I buried them in the backyard."

"They found the bodies."

"I was in a bit of a rush. Didn't exactly have time to light 'em up."

Sam waved a hand in Dean's direction to shut him up. The other hand held up his head. He tangled his fingers in his hair to push it back from his face before looking at his brother. "We gotta talk to Delia, figure out what we're digging her out of."

Dean grunted, "No shit," and picked his keys up off the dresser.

vWv

A pudgy man in a brown uniform escorted Sam to Delia's one person barred cell. She was puking into a bucket when they got there. The guard made a disgusted noise before to waddling away. Sam 'accidently' stepped down hard on his foot when he passed.

Delia ripped a towel off the roll that had been provided for her, wiped her mouth with it, then pitched it through the bars, shooting a pointedly vicious glare at the chubby officer.

"How're you feeling?" She spun around, hearing Sam's voice.

"Oh God, Sam is it good to see you." She rushed to the bars, stretching her arms through and wrapping them as best she could around him. She pressed her nose into his chest because the bars weren't far enough apart that she could rest her cheek on him. "I'm scared."

Sam put a hand solidly between her shoulder blades and flexed his fingertips. "I bet."

She shook her head as best she could with the bars hindering her. "No, really really scared. They're offering plea bargins, but the deals are like… life in prison." She turned her face up to look at him. "They keep tossing around the death penalty, they think I killed five people, Sam." She pressed as close to him as she could, tight enough Sam was sure she'd have bruises from the bars. "And I have motive and no allibi." Even with her eyes squinted shut, tears leaked out the corners. "Saaaam," she whined.

"What do you mean you have motive?" He rubbed the hand on her back up and down, and put his other through to hold her head. "And Dean's talking with the police right now about that alibi." He chuckled. "It's not even quite a lie."

If anything Delia cried harder. "I already tried to tell them I was with you and Dean." She kept shaking her head back and forth, and Sam was scared she was going to hurt herself, so he caught her chin with the hand that had been on her head and forced her to look up at him. "They don't believe me," she sobbed. "The bar tender saw me and Dean fighting, and then he saw me storm out just before the murders. I told them Dean left, too, but the stupid bar tender doesn't remember that, and besides you guys have only been in town this week…" the words trailed off into choked tears. "Sam, I'm so scared."

"Shh, stop that. We got you into this, we'll get you out. Promise." He twined an arm far enough through the bars to drape around her waist. Delia took a deep breath, and her trembling eased a little. "There, that's better." He closed his eyes, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Dean shouting at the detectives down the hall, doubtlessly hitting the same roadblocks Delia had. "Talk to me about why you have motive."

Delia sniffled. "My mom and I fought… a lot. Sometimes loud enough for the neighbors to hear, often in public. There's even a police report somewhere about a domestic disturbance."

"About?" Sam wasn't sure there was a parent-child relationship worse than his and his father's, but he could say for certain they'd never caused enough of a problem that the neighbors called the police.

"Her affair with a werewolf; that werewolf killing Dad…" her forhead and nose wrinkled, "or Mom killing Dad, I'm still a little fuzzy about that one; and before that… stupid shit… college, if I was going, what I was majoring in. Jesus, here I thought school was for a Ph.D, and she thought it was for an M.R.S." She heaved a sigh. "I sorta miss those arguments. We were normal then."

Normal. The word wrenched Sam's heart.

"And the deals they're offering?"

"Don't matter. I don't know the answers they want."

"Tell me anyway. We need to know everything if we're gonna get you outta here."

Delia made a frustrated growling sound low in her throat that for a second frightened him. "They wanna know where my dad's body is. Says if I tell them, admit guilt, blah blah, they'll take capital punishment off the table. Drop it to life in prison with a shit ton of therapy. You know… I know where most of his body is, too. There's just no way they'll believe me."

"Eaten?" Sam grimaced.

"Yeah…"

Down the hall, Sam could still hear hollering, punctuated by clatters of toppling furniture. "Here, why don't we sit." He slid down to the floor, and Delia followed. Sam's shoulder was too broad to press through the bars, but enough of Delia's could that she leant into him, curling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. Sam sighed. "So… what were you gonna go to school for?"

She picked her head up to give him a funny look, a 'what does that have to do with anything?' look. When she realized he was just killing time, she sighed, too, and put her head back on her knees. "Music."

"Play an instrument?"

Delia shifted uncomfortably. She didn't want to be distracted. She wanted a solution. "No, not good enough to make anything at it. Production, promotions, that kinda deal. Support the actually talented musicians of the world." She huffed and hugged her shins a little tighter. "So what about you? How does one end up in the field of hunting werewolves?"

Sam bit his lip. Just like this. He faked a laugh. "It's a bit of a long story."

"Your brother's still fighting with the detectives, we've got time."

"Uhm…" Unable to think of anything better to do, Sam dropped his head against the bars. "I guess it started – "

And then Dean burst through the door at the end of the hall, fuming and swearing, and pounding his fist against the wall at random moments. The security guard tried to grab him, but Dean shook him off, and when the man started to explain procedure to him, Dean told him to, "Shut the hell up!" He grabbed Sam by the front of his jacket and dragged him to his feet.

Delia squeaked and scooted away from the bars.

Sam wasn't sure what he expected to happen, but Dean leaned in close and whispered harshly in his ear. "I have a plan." He held Sam by the base of nis neck and remained pressed tight enough to him through the entire explanation that the officer on duty didn't want to get too close. He all but tossed Sam away, and paced nervously whilst Sam relayed the plan to Delia in hushed tones through the bars.

He stepped away, and Delia stumbled to the bench in the cell's corner. She collapsed onto her back, limbs twitching and making choking sounds. She clutched at her throat and frantically waved one arm. "Help! Help!" she rasped.

Dean stomped over the guard and hauled him up by his collar. "Come one man, you just gonna sit there? Call someone! The girl's dying!" The man's face turned red and sweat beaded up around his hairline. He fumbled with one hand for the phone, making choked hiccupping sounds, and clawing at Dean's hands in the process. Only when he had the receiver in his hand did Dean release his hold, step back, and listen to the phonecall.

Moments later, an on-call nurse, the only one at this hour, burst through the door at the hall's other end rolling a gurney. The guard hurried to the door of Delia's cell and unlocked it, then helped the nurse lift Delia's still spasming body onto the bed, so she could be rolled away. Dean and Sam chased after. They could hear the ambulance's approaching sirens already.

Delia's stomach tightened. She moaned and rolled to one side, curling in on herself and holding her ankles. All her muscles strung tight, and her stomach heaved. Delia coughed and tried to push herself up right. She gagged once, then vomitted over the side of the gurney. Everything was spinning. It was a struggle to stay braced on her hands, but collapsing while losing her stomach contents just wasn't an option. Pressure built up behind her eyes, so she shut them tight.

"Just hang in there, honey, you're gonna be fine," the nurse's voice felt further away than it was. Delia's head swam. She pitched forward, almost off the gurney. Boney fingers held her up. She imagined she could hear Dean shouting at Sam that she wasn't supposed to actually get sick, and Sam shouting back that there was nothing he could have done about it, and then the world went black.

It was late. Very late, which meant the hall leading to the emergency exit was empty. The two detectives that arrested Delia must have been waiting at the ambulance, so no one saw Dean when he grabbed the nurse around her middle and put a gun to her head while Sam rushed to Delia's side. He pressed two fingers to the pulse at Delia's throat, felt the weak beating there, and yelled, "She's dead!" in the most broken voice he could muster.

The nurse made a strangled sound.

"You hear that," Dean growled. "You let that poor girl die."

Sam hoisted Delia into his arms, and made for a different exit, through a door, down another vacant hall.

"What're you doing?" the nurse screeched.

"Stealing the body," he hissed. "Harvesting her organs, selling them, you know the drill." He shrugged, stuffed his gun in the back of his jeans, and bolted after Sam.

vWv

"That was completely retarded!" Sam finally burst out when the police station silouette was long gone from the rearview mirror. "Are you sure it even worked?"

"Eh," Dean shrugged. "Worked good enough, I think."

Sam shook his head.

"You know you were supposed to come up with a better idea, Mr. pre-lawyer student, not be all gung-ho for the smash 'n grab plan."

Sam groaned. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, man, I was just hoping to spur that freakish brain of yours to action. Come on, Sammy, you didn't think that was just a little ridiculous? Even for me?"

"No." Sam dropped his head on the dash, "Especially not for you."

"Oh." Dean pursed his lips and adjusted his hands on the steering wheel. "Hmm."

In the back seat, Delia groaned. "Can you pull over just a sec?"

"Anywhere you want, sweetheart, just please don't puke on the seats." Dean swerved off the road.

vWv

Delia was, on paper, dead. Her body lost forever. What little of her wardrobe she had salvaged was equally lost, and frankly, it was good thing Delia never wanted to see her hometown again because she could never go back. Unless it was with a painted white face and wearing a sheet. Sam had punched Dean in the arm for the suggestion. Delia had laughed.

They stood in front of the bus station. Delia had her hands stuffed in the front pocket of Sam's sweatshirt (he figured the least he could do was let her keep it) while she stared up at them. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a tired sigh. With quite literally just the clothes on her back, she was ready to start over.

She cocked her head to one side. "Uhm… I guess this is goodbye, then. Thanks for all the help."

Dean shrugged his leather clad shoulders. "Just doing our job."

Delia managed a small smile.

"If you ever need anything," Sam held out a scrap of paper folded around hard plastic, "Don't hesitate to call."

Delia pocketed the slip with the phone number and studied the credit card it had been wrapped around. "Marilyn Monroe? Really guys?"

Dean shrugged again. "Your parents had a sick sense of humor. Trust me," he grinned, "It'll work, and uh… is the least we could do after well… uhm…"

Delia laughed, shook her head, and wrapped her arms around Dean's waist. Startled, Dean rested hesitant hands on her back. "Thank you," she said, all sincerity and warmth and no regret.

Dean breathed out a releived sigh. "No problem."

When Delia released Dean, she turned to Sam. He had politely turned his attention to the coming and going vehicles. "Sam?"

"Hmm?" he looked down at her.

Delia got up on her toes, tried her best to get her arms around his neck, which made Sam laugh. He bent down to hug her properly and accept the thanks whispered in his ear as well as the shy kiss pressed to his cheek.

"Take care, Delia." He slowly let her go and drew himself up to his full height. "Good luck with that music career."

She practically beamed. "Thanks, and you two, take care, too."

vWv Present vWv

Too bright sunlight beat through the hotel window. Delia groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over her head.

"You awake over there?" a distantly familiar voice asked, followed by the distinct crunching of someone chewing.

Delia pushed the covers off her face and stared at the ceiling a moment. It was covered in red and turquoise geometric shapes of varying sizes. They made Delia feel like she was in one of those modern art museums, where the pictures could have been drawn by five year olds. The sheets were similarly decorated, and the whole design made her feel like she would to pass out. Or maybe that was just the residual exhaustion. Wiggling its way between rude thoughts about the room's color pallet was a question about the speaker, who was still talking to her. His words melted in with the shapes on the ceiling. And how in hell had those started spinning?

"Delia?" A stubbly face with short, untamed hair loomed over her. He was blurry for a few moments, his warm hazel eyes the first thing to come into focus. "You in there?" He waved a hand in front of her face. Delia swatted it at it. Apparently, this was a good thing; the figure above her chuckled.

Delia blinked once, twice, and then the rest of his features sharpened into a face she actually recognized. "Dean?" she asked. Her voice came out cracked from overuse.

"Yup, you bet. Good ol' Dean." He smiled and patted her on the shoulder. The touch made Delia feel like her whole body was rocking. She grabbed his wrist.

"Don't… don't do that just yet." She winced and pushed his hand back toward him.

"Oh… Sorry 'bout that. Guess you're still not feelin' so good, huh?"

Delia shook her head back and forth, agreeing with him.

"Want something to eat?" He held up half a sandwich where she could see it.

"No thanks, not yet. Just… maybe when I feel less fuckin' miserable."

"I believe that won't be for another two days."

"Huh?" she grunted and managed to prop herself up on her elbows. Dean stuffed a second pillow behind her back, then grabbed a third from the other bed so she'd have something to lean back on. "Thanks." She settled herself against the headboard. Dean sat at her feet, munching the sandwich he'd just offered her. Delia waited until he finished chewing to ask, "Whadoyou mean, another two days?"

"You don't remember last night, do ya?"

"Snatches," she admitted, "Fuzzy, dream like snatches."

"How 'bout the rest of the week?"

"Not as fuzzy. I think I was sick. Spent a lot of time in bed?"

"Aw, man, Delia, you have been dippin' into the werewolf spit way more than is healthy."

"…that's gross."

"And true."

Delia stared at her hands, still tucked under the blankets. "I think I'd like a drink."

Dean shrugged, went to the cooler, took out a beer, and twisted off the cap before handing it to Delia. She tipped the bottle back, taking a long gulp. Dean arched an eyebrow. "Since when d'you drink the non girly stuff?"

She wrapped both hands around the brown glass, studied intently the way the light glinted off it. "Since I started hunting werewolves, I suppose."

Dean's other eyebrow shot up to join the first. "So, you do know you're doing that?"

Delia looked sideways at him, and her face scrunched up. "Well, yeah. What're you not telling me, Dean? What happened last night?" She paused, took another drink. "…this week?"

The hotel room door opened, then softly clicked closed. Sam rounded the corner carrying a brown paper bag. He opened his mouth to ask how Delia was doing, when he saw she was awake, propped up in bed with a beer. He considered taking the beverage away, then decided given Delia's evening, to just let it be. A half dozen questions and statements rattled around in his head before he finally managed to get out, "You're awake."

"Very good, Sammy. You know, for all your college education – "

"Shut up, Dean," he snipped absently, then took his brother's place at the foot of Delia's bed. "How're you feeling?"

She sighed and traced her finger around the mouth of the bottle. "Like I told Dean… miserable," she sighed, "absolutely miserable."

"Do you remember last night?"

Delia visibly flinched away from the question. "We were just getting to that… Some nonsensical blurry bits, but that's it."

Sam glanced at his feet, then at Delia, then asked Dean for a beer. Dean took two from the cooler: tossed one to Sam and twisted the cap off the second. He plopped down across from Sam and Delia on the other bed.

"You know," Sam finally managed to speak again after a few long drinks from his beer, "I'm pretty sure you didn't turn twenty one in the last three months." He forced a grin.

"Sam," Delia set her beer on the nightstand. "Just tell me what the hell's going on."

Sam bit his tongue, thought a second, then started. "You've been hunting werewolves."

"I know that."

"And, well, you caught one, a big first generation monster, and you'd been keeping him in an abandoned mining tunnel in the woods. I dunno how long or why, but – "

Delia gulped. Her eyes got big. "His name was Giselric… I… I caught him before this full moon week started. I demanded he tell me where his hunting grounds were..." Buried memories worked their way to the forefront of Delia's mind. She squinted her eyes and chewed her bottom lip, trying to make sense of her own thoughts. "I think… I think he was giving me names, too. Names of other werewolves and their locations."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

Delia bit the knuckle of her first finger. "Giselric's dead isn't he?" she mumbled around it.

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

Delia nodded, too. "I was going to kill him before the full moon. Couldn't risk him escaping." She cocked her head to one side and looked at Dean. "How'd he die?"

Dean swallowed, looked first at Sam, then at Delia. Both brother's remembered Delia's threats of a long slow death for the monster. Delia saw the exchange. "What?"

"Uh…" Dean rubbed the back of his head. "I shot him."

Sam and Dean braced themselves for an outburst.

There was none. "Lucky bastard," Delia muttered. "He was the one who turned my mother; the reason the things that happened to my family did," she bit out, "I wasn't gonna be so quick about it."

"Delia?" Sam leaned toward her and placed a hand on her knee through the blankets. "He was probably lying, you know that? Hoping you'd keep him alive long enough to escape… Just like he was lying about, uhm, well…"

Delia had been watching Sam intently, but when his words trailed away, she turned to Dean. "Well? What? Lying about what?" Dean looked away from her, back toward Sam. "Dammit, stop doing that!" Delia snapped.

"Gisrelic," it took Sam a second to wrap his mouth around the foreign syllables, "wasn't only telling you about werewolves. He was giving you human's locations. Delia, you didn't just hunt werewolves this week, you've been hunting people, too."

Delia reached for her beer, missed, and knocked the bottle on the floor.

"Delia, I'm sorry. I know you don't remember most of it, and that it's not entirely your fault – "

She smiled sadly at him. "Thanks, Sam, that's sweet, but just, let me come to terms with this one on my own, 'kay?"

Sam opened his mouth. Dean didn't let him speak. "That's fine. I know how you feel 'n all. I'm not much the talkin' type either, but let's be real clear here, Delia, you're not 'coming to terms with this one' by huntin' more werewolves, you got that?" He always did know how to get to the point better than Sam could.

"Why?"

"Remember what I said about dippin' too much into the werewolf spit? Just how many times have you been nipped, snipped, and grazed by monster teeth?"

Delia's mouth gaped. "A couple times, I guess, but I've always washed them out. I've got silver powder in my bag."

Dean tugged Delia's arm out from under the blankets and rolled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her forearm was speckled with scars, little circular welts and thin lines. She pulled her arm away. "Those aren't all bites."

"That's not the point. The point is, a few more of those and you think this month sucked? Well, next month won't even compare. And a few more after that, and who knows, you could end up one of them."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'd kill myself first."

"Good for you. Doesn't mean we're gonna give you the opportunity."

"And how the hell do you think you're going to stop me?" The barest traces of a growl lined her voice.

Outside, the sun was setting. Sam knew where this sudden aggression was coming from. "Delia!"

Previously narrowed eyes expanded to the size of dinner plates, and Delia swayed where she sat. Sam scrambled up the bed and caught her before she could topple off. Her hands flew up to fist in his shirt. He could hear her little whimpers of tears laced with apologies. He rested his chin on her head and rubbed her back in soothing circles. "It's okay, we're gonna get you through this."

Dean left to go get more beer.

Delia spent the next two nights in Sam's arms, alternating between violent boughts of illness and agression. Anger she could always be talked down from. Sickness eased by gingerale and handfuls of antacids. By the end of the week, Sam had more bumps, scrapes, and bruises than he thought he'd ever collected on one job before. Delia swore if she even saw another tropical fruit flavored tums she would drop dead right then.

But they'd both get over it. The point was, Delia had made it through. Granted once a month she was prone to breaking furniture, as likely to sling insults as glass bottles, and then remember none of it in morning, but she was all human. Sam had saved her. The werewolves couldn't have this one.

vWv

"Boys, I don't really do the whole 'student' thing," Bobby craned his head to see over Sam's shoulder. The girl was hauling her bags out of the Impala's trunk.

"Aw, come on, give her a try, Bobby. She's a helluva quick study." Dean clapped Bobby on the shoulder. "She killed a poltergeist just last week." He smiled from one ear to the other.

Sam shook his head. Tossing a match into a pit of salted and gassed bones to stop a cranky elementary school teacher from scaring small children hardly equated to killing a poltergeist.

"Sam?" Bobby noticed the younger Winchester's expression. "What kind of bullshit is your brother makin' up now?"

"Nothing, sir. She's a great girl. Joy to have around. Helluva quick study." He pressed his lips into a tight smile.

Delia dragged her suitcases over so she could stand beside them. She said her goodbyes to Sam and Dean, watched silently as they climbed back into the Impala. Dean rolled his window down before they drove off. "Oh, one thing, though, Bobby. Under no circumstances does she to hunt werewolves!" Dean made a faux severe face, which immediately split into a grin before he peeled out, tires kicking up dust behind them.

"I'm Delia." She stretched out a hand. Bobby stared at it, then at Delia, then back at her hand, then after the Impala, and tried to figure out what the catch was. Delia cocked her head to one side. "What? I don't bite or anything."

---

A/N: Thanks Paul, for picking fights about the formerly unrealistic scenes. Thanks Kat, for listening when I was done fighting with Paul and for fixing the more writer-ly things... at midnight because I'm technologically challenged and is dumb. And Thanks Liz, for your undying support and loving my writing always. …I never put credits after pieces, but given the trauma that went into putting this together in less than a week, I think they're merited.