With One Eye Open, a supernatural fanfic

Title: With One Eye Open

"Shit!"

Dean's eyes flew open. He tried to focus. Sam's face was poised about six inches away. Dean flinched back against the pillow, disoriented. His chest hurt, too, but that was starting to ease as he gasped desperately for breath. What the hell?

"Thank God," Sam breathed. His face was a cheesy-white color. He collapsed onto the edge of Dean's bed.

Yeah. Collapsed was the operative word.

Dean's throat clicked as he swallowed and he winced at the dry rasp. He tried to process what was going on but his brain had downshifted into granny low some time during the night—possibly in an effort to slog through the load of wet cement that was hardening up in his skull. He wasn't exactly a morning person anyway, but it usually didn't take him quite this long to get up to speed. Seriously— what the hell?

He remembered being at a bar last night, but he wasn't hung over, he was pretty sure. He didn't exactly feel great, but he didn't have that special toilet-hugging, please-just-put-a-bullet-in-my-brain-right-now misery, either.

There was a memory of a hot girl and the back seat of the Impala in there somewhere, too. It had happened pretty quick, but sweet. He smiled slightly at the memory. Seriously sweet.

But he'd have to think about that later, because Sam was still looking pretty shitty. A nightmare maybe? But that wouldn't explain Sam's freak-out. Nightmares had been pretty par for the course for the last couple of months, actually. And whatever this was, Sam was clearly bouncing off the back end of freaking the fuck out.

"What's the matter with you?" Dean sat up in the bed. He had to put his hand back against the mattress to steady himself when the sudden movement made him see stars.

Shit.

"Damn it, Dean." Sam took a deep breath and let it out, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth. "I didn't think you were going to wake up. You scared the shit out of me."

"Uh, yeah. I can see that," Dean offered, the noticeable tremor in Sam's voice having shut down his smart-ass reflex for once.

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You stopped breathing. You were blue." He lowered his hand and looked at Dean, who was frowning. "Why the hell do you think I was leaning over you? I was getting ready to do fucking CPR, man."

Memory came washing over Dean in a cold, black wave of panic. There was a weight on his chest, pressing down on him, making breathing impossible—then he'd looked up into the face of a demon.

He realized he'd grayed out a little when Sam started shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, hey…take it easy. You still with me, here?"

Dean took a deep breath. Wondered why it should feel so damned good. The relief didn't last, though, because Sam had that look on his face. Shit. He was so sick of seeing fear in his little brother's eyes, fear that he was putting there. It was time to nut up.

"I'll be fine if you'll get off me, Gigantor," Dean grunted, tapping Sam's hip with the side of his fist. "Come on. Move. Gotta go."

Sam got up from the bed, but he didn't look relieved. Dean moved to the bathroom as steadily as he could, long practice at hiding injuries the only thing keeping him from weaving like he was winding up a two-day bender. Even so, as he crossed the room he could feel Sam's eyes on his back, his brother's worry grating like grit between his teeth, sanding away at his callused edges, wearing him down.

Damn right he had to go, he thought, when the bathroom door was shut behind him. He needed a minute. He splashed water on his face. And why did everybody always think the water-to-the-face thing was such a big fucking help, anyway?

He scrubbed at his face with the cheap, scratchy towel and felt a little calmer. Okay, maybe it helped a little sometimes. Except fucking Sam was pounding on the fucking door already.

"Are you all right?"

Dean sighed. "Yes, grandma. Just give me a few minutes, would ya?"

Sam sat down hard on the bed and sighed heavily. He really, really didn't want to give Dean a few minutes, or a few seconds, or let him out of his sight at all. Dean was still putting on a show of normalcy for his benefit, and maybe a little for his own sake as well, but Sam had spent too many sleepless nights listening to Dean breathe across small rooms not to know that Dean wasn't sleeping worth shit. And he couldn't blame him. But it pissed him off that Dean was looking so ragged, having to suffer through his last few months like this.

No. Not the last. I won't let them be the last.

He knew he was getting on Dean's nerves with his hovering. And he knew he wasn't being rational about it. "Rational" had left the building somewhere around Tuesday number twenty. At this point, he'd wasn't even entertaining rationality; he was just hoping to persuade a semblance of sanity to stick around a little longer. Long enough to fix everything.

Previous Day

"Stillwater, Oklahoma."

"Sounds like a real exciting town. What about it?"

"Maybe a job," Sam gave Dean a sidelong look.

"Okay. What have we got?"

"Population 39,000, four murder-suicides in the last two weeks. Looks like a 'nice guy down the street goes berserk' kind of deal."

"Man, I hate it when that happens. Possession?"

"Could be." Sam paused. He was pretty sure he knew the answer to the question he was about to ask already but with everything so messed up, even by their standards, he asked anyway.

"Look…Dean, are you sure you want to do this?"

"Do what, Sam? Work?"

Sam just raised his eyebrows slightly and kept looking at him.

Dean quit pretending he didn't know what Sam was talking about and suddenly got interested in something on his thumbnail.

"Well, I'm not going to fucking Disneyland, Sam. Might as well get some work done."

The before was silent, but it hung in the air like a bad odor. Then Dean's face changed, brightened with a sickly façade that made Sam's chest ache and his head turn away. He knew what was coming next.

"Unless you want to go to Reno?"

Yeah, that. Sam swallowed hard. Dean was doing a lot of talking about Reno lately. The thing was, Sam didn't think Dean was all that interested in actually going there. In fact, Sam had said okay a couple of times just to make sure, only to have Dean come up with some lame excuse, or just change the subject. Sam had decided Reno had taken on an air of the mystical for Dean, more symbol than real place. An avatar for all the things he hadn't done and never would now, the places he'd never see.

Sam wouldn't look at Dean—couldn't right now—not when he knew his eyes would be telegraphing the one thing Dean was working so hard not to see.

Dean sighed.

"Fine. Stillwater. Fun City. Can't wait."

Now

Dean came out of the bathroom and dressed without speaking. He didn't look at Sam. It didn't stop Sam from staring at him, though. This had to stop.

"Don't you have something to do?" Dean snapped. "I thought there was a job here."

Sam's head gave a small jerk.

"Yeah, I guess," he said weakly, but he didn't move and his eyes didn't regain much focus. The tone of his voice made Dean want to hit something. Sam sounded so fucking tired. His shoulders sagged and he sat too still, no bouncing knee, no twiddling fingers, just the utter stillness of exhaustion, no energy left to fidget. It didn't help much that Dean knew exactly how he felt.

"I'm going for coffee."

Dean grabbed his phone and his wallet and was out the door. Sam said nothing, just watched him go.

Outside felt like freedom. The sour weight of fear seemed to be camped out in his gut for the duration (of his life), but at least out here he could breathe.

The sun was up, but just barely. He'd never been one for gazing at sunsets, and especially not sunrises—preferred to sleep through those whenever possible, in fact. But the air was cold and dry and clean and it went down easy. He walked to the Impala and leaned his elbows on the top, watching the thin red clouds in the eastern sky bleed out into gold.

He didn't have much use for psychoanalysis, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what the dream was about. A weight on his chest, crushing the breath out of him? And the thing he saw. It had looked like some cartoon demon—all black, leathery wings, glowing eyes, hissing and shrieking at him. You never were one for subtlety, were you, Dean? Now that he thought about it, it seemed like the demon had been saying something to him right before he woke up. He couldn't remember it. No use trying, he guessed. The chances it would have been something he wanted to hear were slim to none anyway.

He got in the car and pulled into the street. It made him feel a little better to be mobile and he took what good feelings he could get these days. He'd long since driven past the coffee shop when his phone vibrated.

Text from Sam: "Where are you?"

A burst of anger surged up Dean's spine like an electric charge. His face went hot. He sent the phone across the seat with a snap of his wrist. It hit the passenger door and bounced back onto the seat.

He kept driving.

Sam had waited as long as he could make himself before he sent the text. Logically he knew that Dean could make a coffee run without anything happening to him, but logic didn't carry much weight with the churning in his stomach.

But he wasn't an idiot, either. He'd seen the look on Dean's face. Like a trapped animal. Sam hated that he was the one putting that look there, especially now, when he should be making things as easy as he could for Dean.

And damn it, there it was again. Every thought, every conversation was a minefield now. Of all the things he hated about the big Grab Bag o' Shit that was Dean's situation, that was one of the worst. He needed to figure out some way to make this less about dying than about living.

He figured he could start by giving Dean a little space. It took every ounce of will he had left to open his notes and his computer and get on with it. He'd been staring at the screen for almost an hour when his phone rang.

Dean drove west out of town, trying hard to think of nothing but driving. He thought about heading west, just going until he ran out of road. Hell, Reno was west of here. Not like he had all the time in the world to get there anymore.

He'd gone about ten miles when he saw the sign: Lake Carl Blackwell. He took the turn on impulse. Wouldn't hurt to see what was out there. He wasn't headed anywhere in particular.

Problem was, he did feel like an asshole for ditching Sam like this. Ditched the job, too. It wasn't right and he knew it, but he just didn't have it in him to go back to that room, to Sam's suffocating fear and misery. He had enough of both to go around.

He parked where he could see the water and got out. The sun was warming the hood of the Impala and he stretched out on it. One more thing to love about the old girl, that he could do that without hurting anything. She was sturdy and stable and home sweet home, all he needed right now.

He just had to make a phone call.

"Dean! Where the hell are you? It doesn't take a fucking hour to get coffee!"

"Sammy…" What could he say? That he couldn't stand to be around his brother right now?

"…look, I'm okay. I need a little space right now. I can't…" He didn't have the words for what this was. I just need for you to get this, Sammy.

"Dean," Sam started, then huffed loudly. Dean could imagine the look on his face, that pissy, tight-lipped thing he did. "I can't have you doing this—you can't just wander off! Not after…"

Sam's voice was shot and shaking and Dean's phone hand might be shaking a little, too, but he just couldn't fix this right now. Story of his life: be an asshole now, worry about the consequences later.

"Sam. I'm fine and I'll be back." I don't know when. "I'll call you later." He thumbed the button.

The sun was warm enough that he took his jacket off and laid it between him and the hot black metal. The heat felt good on his face, melting away some of the rawness, slowing his brain. Maybe if he baked here long enough his thoughts would stop altogether, stop chasing themselves around his tired mind and lay the fuck down for a rest.

Rest. What a concept. I'll sleep when I'm dead. How many times had he heard that in his life? Shit, he'd said it himself. Come on, Sammy. Live a little. We can sleep when we're dead. Except that wasn't really true for him anymore, was it? He didn't even have the luxury of uncertainty like most people. He knew exactly what was waiting for him. Had it described to him in lurid detail by more than one demon. And who would know better?

Sure, demons lie. But not when they know the truth will hurt more.

But right here, right now, it was quiet enough for him to hear the waves on the lakeshore. He concentrated on the sound. He didn't think. He listened.

Sam threw his phone against the headboard. He scrubbed his hands over his face. He had to pull himself together. He looked back at his notes and screen, sheer force of will slotting the jagged pieces of his self control back together. He didn't really give a shit about this job. He wasn't sure they should even be wasting time on it. He wondered when he'd started thinking of saving lives as a waste of time.

He was worried about this case, too. Not so much for its own sake; it didn't seem unusually complicated so far, but neither of them was sleeping much lately. It might be understandable, but it wasn't acceptable. Tired was slow and slow was dead. Dean might be on a timetable, but he didn't have to wait for the hellhounds. Either of them could buy it tomorrow if they got careless, or reckless.

It took a tooth-grinding effort to let Dean off the hook, not to just go and track him down right now and drag him back here. But this was something he could do for Dean. If Dean needed space, Sam would try to give it to him. At least for today. If Dean could find some sort of peace that way, it'd be worth it.

He sighed. One thing was for sure; he'd found out all he could from the internet. There was only so much he could do without a car, but one of the victims was a college kid who'd lost it and slit his girlfriend's throat, then his own. The motel wasn't that far from the campus.

There were so many things Sam could be pissed at Dean for right now that leaving him on foot barely signified. By the time he reached the campus and the dorm, he had to admit that the walk had cleared his head a little. The girl working the desk pointed him down the hall to the late killer's room, said she thought the guy's roommate was there.

As he walked down the hall, Sam shook his head in bitter amusement that he could still pass so easily for a college student. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd been part of a campus like this. He felt ancient. He didn't understand how people could keep from seeing it when they looked at him.

He knocked on the door of the room and a pale, skinny, blond kid answered. Sam started his spiel. "Hey, you don't know me, but I was a friend of Kevin's…"

Sam took him through all the usual questions. He hardly had to pay attention anymore, he'd done it so many times now. Did you notice anything strange about him recently? What do you think made him do it? The same story every time. Except…wait, back up.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Um, he said he saw the devil?" The guy had Sam's full attention now.

"What? Are you sure that's what he said?"

"Well, something like that. A devil, a demon, I don't know. He said it was telling him to do things. But what difference does it make? It's all crazy talk, right? I mean, look what he did to Sara. He obviously went crazy."

"Was there anything else?'

"He had been having a lot of nightmares before. Said he couldn't breathe and shit like that, I don't know…"

Stillwater was a college town and it was Friday night. The bar was crowded when Dean walked through the door. It was hot and smoky inside and the music was loud. An uncharacteristic blanket of claustrophobia settled over him and he fought a dizzying urge to turn around and walk right back out. He made himself go inside. The alternative wasn't exactly attractive right now either.

He sat down near the end of the bar and ordered a beer. He was tired (depressed) and thirsty from the sun. He scanned the room, noting a surprisingly target-rich environment. Gotta love those hard-partyin' college girls and their fake IDs. Too bad he was so tired…

Hold the phone. A tall drink of water was headed his way. He could see her thick dark hair over a couple of cowboy hats as she swung it over her shoulder. A twitch south of his beltline informed him that he was not too tired for that—legs up to here, in jeans that fit like…yeah.

"Hey, I'm Julie."

Game on.

She opened the door to her place and turned back into Dean, wound up with her face about a foot from his. Her lips curved up, velvety brown eyes shining.

"Hi, there," she breathed, showing him strong white teeth and the tip of her tongue. She was tall, just short of eye level with him, and he decided he liked that just fine.

He licked his bottom lip and watched her eyes. He gave her a beat or two to step back, show things down, and felt his jeans tighten at the steady, heated look she gave him in return. He put his hand to the side of her neck, thumb running across her jaw, and leaned in. The soft yield of her mouth wrenched a soft groan from him and he forgot to breathe in again. He pulled back slightly, looked at her half-closed eyes and parted lips. Fuck that. Breathing's overrated.

He pulled her close, kissed her harder and she pressed her hips against him. He slid both hands down to cup her ass. Jesus. Sweet as the jeans advertised. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, kissing and sucking his way up to her ear.

She tilted her head toward him and he felt her shiver. He had his eye on the sofa and was about to start maneuvering them in that direction when she put her hand to the back of his neck and nudged his head up with her shoulder.

"Mmm. Hold that thought for me, 'kay? I need just a minute."

"Uh, yeah. You bet. I'm not going anywhere."

When she shut the bathroom door behind her, he blew out a gust of air and wiped his hand across his mouth. He could stand a minute himself. He walked over to the kitchen sink and drank a few swallows of water straight from the tap, drying off on his sleeve. His brain shifted back into gear far enough for him to send a short text.

He heard her come back into the room and turned around. She was standing with her hands on her hips, and she'd been waiting for him to look, apparently, because as soon as she caught his eye, she took hold of her top and pulled it slowly over her head. She undid her jeans and started sliding them down. He couldn't look away from her long, muscular legs.

Where do they stop? Fuck me.

An amused smile spread across her lips and he realized.

"I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

She grinned. "Yep. What are you waiting for?"

It was starting to get dark when Sam double-timed it back to the motel. He was able to track down some info on the other killer by phone. Sure enough, the guy had been having nightmares beforehand, complete with waking up gasping for breath. Sam's fingers began to fly over the keyboard.

Africa, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, China, Hungary, Mexico, the American South—they all had stories of a creature, ghost, spirit or demon that held a sleeper down with a suffocating weight. It was usually explained away by sleep paralysis and hallucinations, but "hallucinations" of a demonic or other evil presence were not that uncommon and sometimes spoke to the sleeper. Science might discount it as hallucinations, or hypnopompic sleep, or even a bad burger, but Sam knew better. He had to get Dean back here right now.

He grabbed his phone. Shit, he'd missed a text from Dean. Must have been while he was running. He pushed the "Read" button: "I'm fine. Don't wait up."

"Oh, no way, Dean. You can just fuck off with that shit," Sam muttered, dialing.

Then he held the phone away from him, looking at it in disbelief.

"Son of a bitch!" He threw his phone for the second time that day.

"Damn it, Dean! You picked a fine fucking time to turn off your phone!"

Dean's chest was on fire. There was something black above him. The thing was crushing him into the bed, killing him. Maybe hissing…shit, he didn't know…the blood was roaring in his ears… so loud. Fuck, can't breathe.

He opened his eyes. Julie was shaking him, panicked look on her face. He sucked in air with a desperately loud gasp. He lay staring at the ceiling and panting. The light was on and there were more little lights floating around the room. Or maybe that was just him.

"Oh, thank God!" Julie said weakly, putting her hand over her mouth.

Interesting. Two people in one day had now thanked the Almighty for his performance of the simple act of breathing. There seemed to be a pattern forming here. The oxygen deficit was starting to correct and he noticed that Julie seemed a bit pasty. He should say something.

"Hey," he rasped out. That was something.

Julie was sitting on the edge of the bed with her forehead in her hand. Kind of like Sam was sitting this morning. Fucking déjà vu all over again.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep here at all actually. It had just been a while since he'd let himself relax like that. Plus he hadn't exactly been sleeping well for a while now. He should have known better.

Okay. He was on this now. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, putting an arm around Julie's shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm okay."

"I thought you were dead," she said shakily.

"I'm not dead. See?"

He bent his head down so he could see her face and smiled, trying to get her to look at him. He squeezed her shoulder gently.

"Hey. I'm okay, really. I just have that thing, you know…where I stop breathing…I can't think of the name."

"Sleep apnea?"

"Yeah, that's it. I stop breathing sometimes when I'm asleep, but I always start again."

He hoped that was true.

The silence stretched on from there, long enough to get awkward. He got up and started pulling on clothes. Julie just sat there watching him. It was a little weird. A hot girl watching you take off clothes was kind of sexy—being the subject of a blank stare while putting them on? Not so much. He was glad when she finally said something.

"I like your tattoo. Julie said, licking her lips nervously. "I don't think I've seen one like it before."

Dean looked down at the dark markings over his heart.

"Yeah," he huffed dryly. "I'd be surprised if you had." He smiled faintly. "It's just something my brother and me…" He paused. "You know what? Doesn't matter."

He slipped on his shirt and squatted down in front of Julie. She had her arms wrapped around herself, eyes still a little wild looking. He took her face in his hands and spoke softly to her, like he would to a child.

"Listen, Julie. I'm sorry I scared you. You okay?"

She nodded. He kissed her and said, "I'm just gonna get out of your hair now, okay? If you're sure you're all right?"

She took a deep breath and looked better, let her arms drop away from hugging herself and squared her shoulders. Pulling herself together. Dean smiled. He liked her better for it.

"Yeah, I'm good," she said. "And you don't have to leave."

"Yeah, I do. But thanks." He brushed his fingers through her hair as he stood up.

She got up and walked behind him, but kept a little distance. He turned back at the door with a nod and smile of goodbye. He thought she looked relieved when he closed the door behind him.

At first it felt good just to be outside (breathing), but by the time he was inside the Impala delayed reaction had set in. He was coming apart. Pieces were seriously about to start flying off him in all directions, like he was one of those joke cans where springs come out instead of peanuts. It wasn't supposed to be like this—he wasn't. Dealing with fucked-up shit was his job. Just take things as they come and let them roll off his back. This wasn't a feeling he was used to, despite everything he'd been through.

Suddenly Sam's blanket of mother-hen protectiveness didn't seem so bad.

It was somewhere around one a.m. when he let himself back into the room, trying to be quiet even though he knew he didn't have a chance of not waking Sam. And it was definitely a wasted effort. Sam was up and he was pissed.

Dean looked at him leaning back against the headboard, arms crossed, eyes cold and hard. It wasn't a look he saw on Sam very often and when he did, it was almost never directed at him. An explosion would have meant he was mad, but Sam had already blown his way past angry—several hours ago, if Dean was any judge—and was pulling into the station at full-on livid.

Personally, Dean would have preferred a quick boil-over to this barely controlled simmer. He collapsed into a chair and braced for it.

"Dean. You can not do this shit to me." Sam bit off each word like he was crunching ice between his teeth. He stopped and put his hand over his eyes, rubbing hard. When he took his fingers away from his face, Dean wished he'd left them there. He really didn't want to see that haunted, harassed look. Not even if he'd earned it. All he could do now was try to smooth it over.

"Sam, be reasonable. No matter what happens in the next…while…we have to get out of each other's hair now and then. Don't we?" He dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Oh my God, Dean! Are you fucking kidding me?"

Sam launched himself off the bed and loomed over Dean. Fucking loomed. He was damned good at it, too.

And Dean didn't care if it was Sam, or how upset he was; he had a strong urge to put him through the wall. Sam must have seen something in his eyes, because he backed off a step (not far enough) and dropped his voice a notch. But he was still leaning over Dean and his eyes were dark with fury.

"You turned your phone off, Dean."

Oh. He had to cop to that one. He never turned his phone off, and doing it after what Sam had just been through was pretty shitty of him. But he hadn't just needed to get out of the four walls of the room; he needed to feel free of it all for a just a little while. He didn't know why severing that little electronic connection made any difference. It just did.

"Sam, I…"

"Look, Dean. I get it. I know I'm not being reasonable or rational or whatever. I'm a mess. I admit it. But I'm hanging on by my fucking fingernails here."

Sam stopped and ran his hands back and forth through his hair, clutching at it really, like he might start ripping it out in chunks any minute.

"Dean…I'm sorry to have to put this on you right now, but I need your help."

No need to keep dancing around it. Dean had no defense against a bald-faced plea from Sam and they both knew it. Lately it seemed like everything he did just amounted to waiting anyway. Truth be told, he was relieved to be able to do something to help for a change. He rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"All right. All right. Tell me what you need from me right now."

Sam took a deep breath, blinked hard once and then looked Dean in the eye.

"I need to know you're all right, that you're alive, every second of every day. Do you understand?"

And Dean did. He understood totally. He'd felt the same after Cold Oak. It just wasn't as big an adjustment for him as it was for Sam. After all, he'd felt that way to one extent or another pretty much all his life.

Sam continued. "That means no running off to God knows where without telling me. And no turning off your phone."

Dean sighed and looked down at the floor.

"Okay, Sam. Just one thing, though."

"What?"

"You have to buy me a ring."

Sam frowned and cocked his head.

"What?"

"Or I know—we can get some of these necklace things that look like a broken heart. We can both wear one."

Sam breathed a short laugh.

"Asshole."

A half-smile crossed Dean's face.

"I know."

When Sam focused enough to tell him what he'd found out, Dean was a little freaked himself.

"So you're telling me some sort of sleep demon is causing these murder-suicides?"

"It looks that way."

"Guess we'd better sleep in shifts, then."

Considering he'd already had that oh-so-restful little siesta earlier, Dean told Sam to go first. The kid looked exhausted and Dean didn't think he could sleep now anyway.

Because this was fucked. These demonic sons of bitches just wouldn't leave well enough alone. This was kicking him when he was down. It was no more than he should expect from their kind, but it still pissed him off.

He was no stranger to rage, or even hate. But this was a new feeling. The only way he could think of to describe it was righteous anger. And well, "righteous" wasn't a word he would normally use, but it was really kind of a good feeling. Everyone had treated him like such a royal screw-up for the last year for making the deal. "Righteous" sounded pretty good right now.

When it was his turn to sleep, Dean surprised himself by actually getting some rest. Even if he did wake up to Sam's face leaning over him again.

"Dude. It's been two days since I woke up without somebody's face in my face. I'm getting fucking claustrophobia here."

"Sorry," Sam muttered. He didn't sound like he was all that sorry, but at least he backed up a little.

Dean sat up on the side of the bed and ran his hands over his face and up through his hair. He gave Sam a questioning look.

"What?" Sam frowned.

Jesus. You'd think they'd never met or something.

"Coffee?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. I'll go get some," Sam said distractedly. "You stay here."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Take your time," he said, leaving off the rest—so I can take my time in the shower. Sam had finally stopped making him leaving the bathroom door every time, but he still had a distressing habit of knocking at odd moments, yelling "Everything all right in there?" through the door. It was nerve-wracking having that going on while he was trying to have a little personal time. Had to be bad for the system.

A large coffee later, Dean was ready to hear the game plan. Or make one. Or do something constructive, whatever it might be.

"'Mara' is an old Norse name for a malignant female wraith believed to cause nightmares. That's where the word came from, actually. It's also the name of the Hindu goddess of death. In Buddhism, it's the name of a demon."

"Doesn't narrow it down much. Anything about how to kill one?"

"Yeah. Way too much. There must be twenty or thirty different exorcisms, charms, spells, and prayers in here. I don't know if any of them will work. It might have to be specific to the particular demon that's here and I have no idea how to figure that out, either."

They spent the day interviewing everybody they could find with any connection to the victims at all, not really finding out anything new. Certainly not anything they could use to kill it, or even banish it. The local library was too small to be of much use, though realistically it didn't seem likely that driving to Oklahoma City to use a bigger one would yield anything but a lot more information, with no way to narrow it down. Their problem wasn't too little information; it was too much. They were just wasting time, sifting and reshuffling until they could find some connection, the key in the lock that would open things up.

It was time they didn't have.

Sam really hadn't wanted to come here, but Dean had insisted that The Strip was the place to find out something in Stillwater.

"Sammy, it's a college town and college kids go to bars." Dean looked at Sam a minute, then rolled his eyes. "Or normal ones do, anyway."

"I went to bars in college, Dean. I just didn't make them my major field of study."

"Well, you have your sources; I have mine."

"Fine, Dean," Sam sighed. "We'll go to The Strip."

Sam leaned one elbow against the bar, nursing a beer. He was scanning the room without being obvious, while watching Dean hit on a petite blonde out of the corner of his eye. Sam smirked. It didn't appear to be going too well. She rolled her eyes and turned her back on Dean. Sam chuckled. Nope. Not well at all.

Dean looked at the floor for a second, then turned back toward Sam, rueful grin still in place. He leaned on the bar beside Sam and ordered another beer.

"Struck out, huh?" Sam's grin was full on now.

"Now, see, there's your problem, Sammy. You give up too easy. That wasn't a strike-out—that was just strike one," Dean winked, taking a pull of his beer.

"Uh huh. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Dean."

"Can't hit a home run if you don't swing the bat, Sammy."

"What's with the baseball metaphor?" Sam muttered into his beer. "Dean, can we focus here, try to get somewhere on this thing before…

But Dean didn't answer because he'd started weaving his way through the crowd to some objective across the room. Sam waited for the bodies to move and he got a quick flash of a pretty dark-haired girl already in Dean's arms. Dean must have known her; baseball and bragging aside, even Dean didn't work that fast.

Sam wasn't too surprised when he saw Dean and the girl started making their way toward the door a short time later. Didn't mean he was happy about it.

Sometimes you just gotta let people go. Damned if he would. But maybe just for tonight. He could give Dean that.

He caught Dean's eye. Phone, he mouthed and frowned sternly as he could. Dean gave him a nod and a smirk. Then he was gone.

Dean wasn't too sure about approaching Julie in the bar. He might be the last person she wanted to see after last night. Waking up with a possibly dead guy in your bed probably wasn't the ideal bonding experience. But they needed to figure out what was going on in the town and he knew her, kind of, so he went over to see where he stood.

But she actually seemed happy to see him. Maybe a little too happy.

"Dean!" she squealed when she saw him. Shit—did he give her his real name last night? He could have sworn…

She stepped close and laid her hand on his chest. Her hand was warm—really way too warm—and the heat of it spread down across his belly and poured over his groin and a wave of want slammed into him, and oh, fuck—they had to get out of here right now or everybody in this bar was gonna get the show of their lives.

Julie seemed to agree. Her eyes were hot with it as he pulled her close. They turned as one and headed for the door. They passed Sam, but he barely registered. Sam was making a face and mouthing something at Dean. Dean nodded and kept going. They were getting out of here right now, Sam or no.

Dean didn't stop to think, reason was out the window. He knew this wasn't right but couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Something was off—his brain was trying to warn him with some distant alarm he was beyond understanding. And since his upstairs brain was fucked, he was going with the head that seemed to be working at the moment.

It was working just fine.

Dean didn't know how they made it to Julie's place. He didn't remember a goddamned thing about the drive, nothing but Julie—her face, her smell—they filled him; she was all there was. They got out of the car as soon as it stopped and met in front of it. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to the door. She took out her keys and started working the lock.

Neither of them said a word. Didn't need to. Dean was pressed to her back, mouthing at her neck, running his hands over her body. Couldn't stop. Couldn't stop touching her if his life depended on it.

She finally popped the door and Dean manhandled her inside and pushed it shut with his shoulder, shoved her against the wall a little too hard. She didn't flinch, just threw her arms around his neck and her mouth against his. He reached under her hips and pulled her up against him, groaning at the pressure against his dick. She gasped and lifted her legs, wrapped them around his waist. He was ready for it. He lifted her easily and headed for the bed. It wasn't hard to locate in the small apartment.

Goddamned good thing, too. He was ready to throw her down and take her on the floor if they didn't get to it pretty quick. He laid her down on the bed and backed off just enough to get his jeans undone and down. And fuck, she wasn't waiting for him—she had hers off by the time he was done. He leaned back over her and she lunged for his mouth, bit his lip hard.

"Fuck!"

Dean touched the spot with the tip of his tongue and tasted blood. He took one look at her feral grin and lost it. He hooked his arms under her thighs and lifted her, plunged balls deep into her with one hard shove. She cried out and they both froze for a long second, wild eyes meeting and holding. Then it was all hard thrusts and sharp nails and slap of skin. It seemed like only a few seconds later she convulsed under Dean, eyes rolling up and back arching, and then he was gone, too and he came hard, growling and shaking.

He rolled off to her side, lay there panting. Jesus. He hadn't come like that since he was sixteen; he'd never seen a woman come that fast in his life. He suddenly realized neither of them had said a word since they'd left the bar. Then couldn't figure out why it should matter. His thoughts were slowing and floating away and he didn't care anymore; he was just so goddamned tired.

Something's wrong.

Sam was wishing he hadn't let Dean go before the door of the bar swung shut behind him. He checked his watch. Midnight. He'd give Dean another hour and then he was calling. Sam didn't care how pissed Dean was or how much of a hard time he gave him for it, in an hour he was fucking calling him. He finished his beer and headed out the door.

Sam did a perfunctory scan of the parking lot. Was that the Impala? Huh. Sam had expected Dean to take it; figured on walking back himself. Maybe they took Julie's car? He fished his key out of his pocket, but then he noticed something on the driver's seat. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Sam wrenched the door open with more force than necessary, the creak sounding loud in the dark. Dean's cell was sitting on the seat.

Damn it, Dean. Something was wrong.

Dean, you had better be in serious trouble or I'll kill you myself. Sam stalked back into the bar, rage alternating with panic. It wasn't a good combination for getting information out of people; he reminded himself to speak softly and not to loom too much. He had to find out more about the girl.

Something's wrong.

Dean woke without moving anything but his eyes, looked carefully around the unfamiliar room, trying to figure it out. For one thing, he was in a strange bed and he was alone. But it was more than that. Something was watching him.

There was a faint light coming from somewhere, bathroom maybe, but he couldn't see much without moving. He tensed carefully, then flipped over and off the edge of the bed and onto his feet, guard up. There was a metallic flash and a body hit his, hard.

Julie. And something else. She pinned him against the wall. Too strong. He grabbed her knife arm—fuck, big knife—and twisted. She dropped the knife. He kicked it away.

She came at him again. He dodged away. She was clearly possessed; he didn't want to hurt her. She hissed and picked up a straight-backed chair and swung it at him, clipping him hard across the left flank. Fuck. He'd be pissing red tomorrow.

Okay, now he wanted to hurt her.

He tackled her to the floor and tried to pin her. He could keep her on the floor pretty much—not a really strong demon, then. Good to know. Fuck, he hated trying to fight without his pants.

She was hissing and spitting and clawing at him now and shit—it's like trying to give a mountain lion a bath. He finally got her arms pinned under his knees, trying to keep his crotch back from her snapping teeth. He was wondering what the hell he was going to do with her now, when she caught a piece of the skin of his thigh between her teeth and slung her head to the side.

"Jesusfucksonofabitch!"

He had his hands around her neck when the front door slammed open.

"Dean!"

"Sam! In here! She's possessed! Do something before she bites another hunk out of me!"

Sam's rapid Latin started to flow before he even hit the floor next to Dean. Between them, they tried to control Julie's thrashing until the exorcism could work. And it did. She calmed surprisingly quickly, then looked frightened again.

"Dean? Is it gone?" she asked, trembling.

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam in question. Sam shrugged. For now.

Dean turned back to Julie, who was looking confusedly between them.

"Julie, this is my brother Sam. Sam…Julie."

"Hi, Julie," Sam said. Then he fixed Dean with the weary look of the perpetually disgusted.

"Dean, go put on some pants."

Dean had to admire Julie; she was tough. She didn't need much explaining or convincing about the demon. But then seeing is believing.

"Yeah," she said. "It was right after you left the other night, Dean. This…thing…I don't know, a black thing with wings, it attacked me. I don't remember much else until I saw you at the bar again tonight, and all I could think about was…" she blushed and trailed off.

Dean smirked. "Yeah. I know. Me, too."

Sam was frowning at them. "What are you talking about? What happened?"

Dean glanced at Julie, then looked back at Sam.

"Sam, you remember the uh…job…in Newport a few years back?"

"The one where the succubus…oh." Sam grimaced. "It was like that?"

"Yeah."

"I guess it kind of makes sense," Sam said thoughtfully. "Mara and succubi are linked in some of the legends. Might be kind of like a hybrid."

Julie was looking confused again. "What are you talking about?"

Sam made an apologetic face.

"Julie, the demon that was possessing you was probably a type of succubus. It's a demon that…well, it has sex with men, and it was responsible for, um…what happened to you and Dean."

She considered for a moment.

"Okaaay," she drawled. "Yesterday I'd have said you were full of shit, but now…"

"Yeah." Sam smiled. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I think it's probably responsible for the murder-suicides, too. Maras have been known to incite their victims to evil."

"But why me?" Julie asked, frowning.

Sam shot a glance at Dean.

"Honestly, Julie, I think you probably got it from Dean. I mean, you two, uh…were together before, right?"

Dean scowled.

"You gotta be kiddin' me, Sam. You think I gave it to her?"

"It seems likely, Dean. I didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle before I heard about you two and your, uh…problem, last night, but it all fits now. It couldn't possess you, not completely, because of your tattoo but it attached itself to you as best it could. And the other victims were all couples, or had been." Sam paused and shrugged slightly. "Dean, I think this thing is hopping from person to person through sex."

"What?" Dean huffed incredulously. "A sexually-transmitted demon?"

"Kind of gives a whole new meaning to the term STD," Julie said.

"I've been telling you for years to be careful, Dean," Sam said. "It was only a matter of time until you came home with something you can't wash off with bleach and a Brillo pad."

"Shut up, Sam."

"So much for safe sex," Julie muttered.

"Uh, yeah, that's another thing, Julie…" Dean began. "…about last night."

"I'll give you guys some time," Sam said and left the room.

A few hours' sleep and they were ready to get back on the road. Sam was concentrating on the map open in his lap. He pointed left with his thumb and Dean made the turn onto the highway.

"So," Sam said without looking up, "did you get everything square with Julie?"

"Yeah. She's gonna stay in touch."

"Good. I'm not sure if we actually sent that demon to hell or just somewhere besides inside Julie. We need to keep an eye on Stillwater, in case it comes back. Having somebody we know here will make it that much easier."

"I gave Julie one of the charms just in case."

"Good idea."

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "So, can you find me a place to get tested in Oklahoma City?"

"I'm sure it won't be a problem," Sam said, although the thought of Dean having to worry about catching (or passing on) a dose of clap seemed so piss-ant trivial right now that he kind of wanted to laugh maniacally. He folded the map instead.

"Going through Oklahoma City makes it easier anyway. We can get on I-40 and head straight through Texas and New Mexico from there."

Dean cocked his head. "Straight to where?"

"Reno."

Dean smiled and hit the gas.