Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary (Time to See Her Swing)
One Shot
Summary: Dean's thoughts during the Bloody Mary encounter.
Disclaimer: Half the dialogue belongs to Kripke, just like all the characters (except Jess) belong to him. Hmph.
Author's Note: Everyone seems to have a Jess in their lives.
Genre: Ehh, General/Angst
Her name was Jess, and she was thirteen years old.
Dean grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes closely shut, sees Bloody Mary's form out of the slits, the blood swirling around his irises. The mirror right beside him is large and plain, but he'll hope it'll work.
He was speeding through the streets, the curves of the road barely holding him in. Jess clung to the seat beside him, fear clutching her, tears streaming down her face. The sign to her town jumps up and down in his head lights. Banner Elk, North Carolina had a werewolf problem.
Sam is crying out in pain beside him. Blood that had been streaming from his eyes even before Dean ran back in and smashed the damn mirror is pooling steadily down his cheeks and onto the ground. But now they're both down on the floor, on their backs, and she's slowly walking toward them. People who have caused deaths. Charlie and her boyfriend's suicide. Her friend, Jill, and Gary Bryman, the hit and run. Lily and Donna's father and their mother. Caused deaths.
"Stop!" She screamed, and he slammed down on the brakes, the rental car screeching on its breaks angrily, painfully. "Turn- turn left right now!" He followed her cries without noticing the shadows bounding in the side mirror. "My house, it's just right on the left. Stop, stop!"
Sam is groaning, swearing violently and blackly under his breath. His throat works hard as he tries to hide the pain, but he knows he could never hide that sort of thing from Dean. Dean, who held him in his arms on his six month birthday, his protector, and never let go. Dean angles the mirror more, and just barely saw Bloody Mary stopping, pivoting as if she spun in water, and turned her head to meet her own reflection head on.
"Jess," he said protectively, controllingly, as he careened to a stop, his arm holding her back in her seat and not to collide with the dash, "stay here, you hear me? Do not get out of the damn car and run in the house. I do not care who is in there or what you hear: Don't go in." She nodded, frightened to her very core, her green eyes glowing in the blackness of the night. "Good," he said, and pulled back, grabbing the gun from his waistband; the silver clip emerged from his jacket pocket. He tapped it against the gun, the confirming noise of bullets rattling around confirming it. He shoved it in and looked to her, smiling once curtly, reassuringly. She looked at him, clutched the hand rest. She nodded. He got out of the car, slammed it, and ran.
"You killed them," Mary says, her face changing, her voice malicious and making Sam squirm (or is that the agony?). "All those people, you killed them." She chokes, the pain killing her, and she contorts, screams as she turns to glass.
"My dad is in there," she said to him as he pulled out of the motel on the outskirts and started speeding toward her town, "just please don't hurt him. Whatever you do, don't hurt him, don't hurt anyone." Her dad is the werewolf. Had been for the past four months- just as long as the newspapers had been saying there were grisly murders. He shoved his shoulder into the door and barged in, gun down carefully in front of him. The howl started a floor above him, the lonesome, hungry noise echoing through the empty house. He cocked the gun before him, face set. He was ready.
Dean's numb fingers loosened around the solid frame dropped the mirror over their legs. Sam coughed and rolled over, trying to catch his breath. Dean watches him, rubs the blood from his cheeks and eyes. They both stare at the broken antique mirror, the blood already drying and cracking over their cheeks. "Hey, Sam?"
Dean was twenty-four years old. He hadn't taken a werewolf on in years. He was unprepared. With a crazed howl, it barrelled off the second floor, pushed itself through the banister. His back hit the wall as he watched it crash down, his body stock still as he watched it scrabble through the dusty rug, claws digging into the wood of the floor. It's cold eyes found his and they stared at each other. Dean didn't even flinch.
"Yeah?" He continues to stare at the damn thing, the crinkled glass of the mirror reflecting the moon outside, the light bouncing off the other mirrors and reflecting back. Dean turns to look at him, his eyebrow arched. He already has his comeback in his mind.
Jess crashed through the open door as the werewolf stood up, fangs dripping blood and saliva. She screamed as it turned to look at her, head bobbing, and started toward Dean. Dean never missed- until now.
"This has got to be… what? Six hundred years of bad luck?" Sam laughs and Dean takes it in, grinning. They caused the deaths, the hundreds of deaths. Every single person brought it on themselves.
Dean swore and threw himself down another hallway, reloading his gun as the werewolf barrelled in the door behind him. He turned and grunted, shot off. Perfect shot. Dean was always a perfect shot. It slumped in front of him dead. He wiped his face, breathed deeply, and spit on the carcass, making sure to step on its head, blood dripping on his boot as he ran to Jess. She wasn't breathing as he skidded to his knees at the front door and picked up her body, cradling the small teen in his arms. He swore loudly and cradled her close, feeling the blood drip onto his shirt as her bloodied stomach smashed against his. "Don't hurt anyone," she had told him and even that he couldn't handle.
He thought of Jess as he pulled Sam to his feet and dragged him out of the building, past the slowly waking police and to the car. He watches Sam as he fell into his seat of the car, groaning in pain. He had never killed someone before Jess, and he'd be damned if he would kill anyone else.