[A/N: This is dedicated to Laura Messer, who is awesome and one of my only regular reviewers. She submitted me the prompt that inspired this. I'm having this be a post-Deanmon canon-AU with established Destiel but still early in their relationship. No clue how long it'll be yet, we'll see how it goes, eh? Lemme know what you think, reviewers get Castiel cuddles!]
They only went on the hunt because Dean was restless and desperate to prove that he was better, that he was in control of the Mark of Cain and not the other way around. It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. Get in, gank the son of a bitch, and get out.
Of course, because they were the freaking Winchesters, it could never be that easy.
It was Sam who discovered that the ghost had been following the orders of a witch. The bitch had gotten ahold of some curse or something that gave her power over the spirit.
Three days of research, two six-packs of beer, and a half-dozen phone calls later, they'd found their witch.
The witch in question was nineteen-year-old Karla Robinson, and she'd been using her spell to torment some people who'd persecuted her for her interest in the supernatural when they went to high school together. Naturally, once Sam and Dean knew that, they couldn't just let her keep going. Dean hated bullies, but he hated witches even more. She'd probably kill them and, while they were definitely at least partially in the wrong, they didn't deserve to die for it.
They loaded up their shotguns with lead bullets and Dean stuck a pistol in his waistband, Sam having the demon-killing knife at his belt. Not ten minutes later Sam was kicking the door to Karla's door in. Guns cocked and ready, they shuffled inside, glancing around suspiciously. With a nod they separated, Dean cautiously going up the stairs to poke around as Sam investigated the first floor.
The first door led to what Dean assumed was Karla's bedroom. It looked so ordinary. Until you checked the closet, of course. Dean's nose wrinkled at the pile of bones in the bowl covered in what looked like dried blood, laid before what appeared to be an altar littered with photos of everyone who'd been attacked by the ghost. Each photo had a symbol Dean didn't recognize painted over the victim's face in blood and Dean felt bile rising in his throat. Freaking witches, he thought nauseously, coming out of the closet and shutting the door gingerly.
He was halfway down the hall to the next room when he heard a crash downstairs, followed by several gunshots and Sam shouting in alarm. He assumed the female shrieking what sounded like gibberish was Karla casting a curse, and Dean was racing downstairs when light flashed from the direction of the living room.
"SAM!" Dean bellowed as more gunshots rang out. Karla's voice was cut off by a piercing shriek, and then everything was eerily silent.
Shit, shit, shit, Dean thought, panicking as he vaulted over the couch, eyes scanning anxiously for Sam.
The first thing he saw was Karla. She was lying on the floor, staring at the floor with lifeless eyes that had once been a rich, shining chocolate brown. A slow trickle of blood traced down her pale face from a gash on her temple, a few drops falling to join the more rapidly growing pool leaking from the bullet holes riddling her chest. The blood was thick and dark, almost black it was such a rich red, and it reminded Dean of before, before he'd been cured, when he'd savored such acts and didn't give a damn about anything. The Mark on his arm began to burn and Dean felt the blood calling to him, singing a song of slaughter and chaos, promising strength and darkness he could revel in without a care in the world.
A sudden wailing shattered the spell and he jerked his head towards the sound. He froze at the sight that greeted him, growing cold with shock and horror. Oh, no...he thought in dismay, please no...
Sam, seeming oblivious to his distress, continued howling, tears tracing down his face. Normally Dean would give him all sorts of hell for crying over a witch. But he'd let it slide just this once, given that his little brother was sitting naked in a pile of clothes meant for an overgrown moose of a man.
Not a baby.
Only the growing pool of blood spreading slowly towards the bawling baby had Dean snapping out of his shock. He lunged forwards and snatched his baby brother up, absently rocking him as his sluggish mind tried to figure out what to do next.
The last time he'd held Sam when he was so small, Dean had been four and rushing from a burning house. Shivering slightly, Dean acknowledged that at least this was slightly better circumstances. Then he glanced at the Mark of Cain branded on his arm and his face darkened with anxiety.
Don't think about that. Focus on Sam and get the hell out of here. Just get to the bunker and then deal with everything. The cops could deal with Karla's body, Dean had bigger things to worry about at the moment.
Dean snatched up Sam's pile of clothes and carefully swaddled the still-blubbering child in the over-large flannel shirt before rushing out to the Impala. He dithered a moment before sighing and anxiously buckling Sam into the front passenger seat, figuring at least then he'd be easier to keep an eye on. It wasn't perfect but he didn't have a damn car seat and it was the best he could do for now so it would have to be enough.
Rushing around, Dean slid into the driver's seat and revved the engine before slamming his foot on the gas. Sam's sobs became shrieks that grated on Dean's nerves and gave him a headache.
"Damn it, Sam," he growled, wincing at the impressive pitch his baby brother was achieving, "God just-Sam-would you shut up? I don't speak baby!" Exasperated and desperate, Dean jabbed the button to turn on his tapes and almost instantly the familiar sounds of Metallica was coming through the speakers.
Sudden silence from the toddler had Dean glancing over worriedly whenever he could spare a few seconds from focusing on the road. Sam was still sniffling, but he was also yawning now and his huge puppy-eyes were droopy. Yes, please, go to sleep, Dean silently begged. Only seconds later Sam did just that, his eyes falling shut as he leaned back against the seat.
Dean sighed in relief and settled in for the long drive back to the bunker.
