Authors Note: I own nothing, though I'd give my right hand to own Dean. This story is definitely an AU Weechester. I've taken elements from the show and twisted them to fit my own needs. Reviews would be lovely. Let me know what you think!

Summary: When Dean is attacked by a demon he never could have imagined the way his life would change...

This house does strange things to me. If I'm alone in it too long I can feel the happiness leach from my mind and a dark pit open up. We've only lived here a week and in that time every time my brother goes off to school and Dad takes off for work, I can feel it—that pit. Now, I'm not one prone to depression. I've seen enough terrible shit in my life to know that as long as my family and I are still breathing, it's been a damn good day. But not even watching the beauties of Bay Watch can shake that darkened pit away. Turning the TV off and doing something else doesn't help. The only time I feel any relief is when someone's here, their voice loud in my ear, the sound filling the pit inside. Going outside helps too. The farther I walk, the smaller the pit gets. It disappears completely about a mile out.

I asked Sammy if he felt it, but he just gave me a blank stare and a shrug. Since he hit high school, he's been a moody little bitch. He and Dad fight whenever they're in the same air space and I learned quick that getting out of their way is often the best—and only—option. That doesn't change the fact that something is up. Every instinct screams it. But until my arm heals, Dad won't take me with him on hunts and I dropped out of high school two years ago. Some might say, high school drop out, bad home environment, no job, no friends—kids just depressed. But I know depression; I've seen it, felt it first hand.

This feels cold, and slimy, and separate from me in a way depression never does. Depression feels like a murky swamp, sucking you down face first so your screams are drowned out by the water and mud. This pit feels like a black hole—all howling wind and biting cold emptiness. It's four o'clock now. I've been alone since 11 when Dad left to go interview a couple of witnesses. He thinks its werewolves. The time of the month fits. As does the trail of corpses missing their hearts and their throats. I tap at my cast. It goes down to encase my fingers, leaving only the thumb free. The broken bones in my wrist, forearm, and hand are all courtesy of a poltergeist who threw me through a window and then held me down while her partner bashed my hand over and over again with a lamp. Doc says I have twenty separate fractures and won't have full use of my arm or my hand for at least another two months. It's been three weeks already and I'm about to cut the damn thing off.

There's no way Dad can take on the number of werewolves that must be out there to account for the amount of bodies that were found. He'll need backup and Sam'll refuse, I know he will. Kid hates hunting. At sixteen he's all knees and elbows, taller than me and Dad, with a bee so far up his bonnet that you couldn't find it with a telescope and a flashlight. I love the kid but I was going on hunts when I was twelve, training since I was six. He needs to step up, at least until I can get back in there.

Getting off the couch, I grab my jacket and head for the door. I can't stand the silence, the gnawing pit, a second longer. I reach for the knob but it's already turning. I stop, draw back, expecting Dad to open it and come through any second. But the knob keeps spinning, going faster and faster until it's nothing but a blur. The hairs on my neck creep up. I back up, pull my knife from my pocket. Whatever's causing the knob to go all Carrot Top isn't just the wind. It's got to be something else. As if hearing my thoughts, the knob stops spinning, coming to a stop with a screech and the smell of burning metal.

I tighten my grip on the knife, eyes never leaving the door. Silence. Then a knock, followed by a soft, almost inaudible giggle. The knob rattles again and then the door flies open, connecting with the wall so hard it pops free of the top hinges and hangs there like badly hung laundry. My heart rate jumps but I stay calm, my hold on the knife never loosening. A little girl stands in the doorway. She can't be much over eight or nine. She smiles at me and giggles.

"Hello," she says. Blood coats her teeth and lips, going down to stain the poufy purple dress she wears. I don't think the blood is hers and she looks too solid to be a ghost. That means demon, or maybe shape shifter.

Her smile never lessens and it's beginning to seriously freak me out. She glances around, stepping daintily over the threshold. "My, my, how dreary this place is. I didn't expect to find you here, Lucy."

Lucy?

"Sorry, kid," I say. She's between the front door and me. The kitchen window behind me is too small to get through and the ones in the bedrooms are too far to reach. "But you did kind of knock down my front door; tends to give a place a run down look."

That makes her giggle. "You're funny." Her smile tightens, red leaching over her eyes until the color fills them from corner to corner. "But it's time to go back. You've been very naughty, Lucy. Daddy wants to have a word with you." The blood makes her look feral as she saunters closer. "And Daddy's words aren't nice."

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her eyes. Red eyes means demon. And not just any demon but a crossroads demon. Damn it. Whatever brought her here can't be good. Stall, Dean, you need to stall.

"I'm sure they're not; but my name ain't Lucy and I'm not going anywhere with you, bitch, so I think you're shit out of luck."

Whoops. That might have been the wrong thing to say.

Her face curdles, mouth and cheeks sucked inward as if tasting something rotten, but the next several things she does pass by in a blur, too fast to track. One second there's three or four feet between us; the next her tiny fingers are gripping my wrist and the knife is in her hand, not mine. Then, pain. Bright, horrible pain.

I glance down and think I might be sick. The knife is buried to the hilt in my stomach, her tiny hand tight on the blade. The demon giggles and twists. My knees go out from under me. It's a bad move. Because as I drop, the hand holding the knife doesn't, so my drop forces the knife upward, only stopping when it hits the bottom of my sternum. I don't even think to scream. I can't. I can't do anything but stare at her dumbly. She smiles and pats my cheek but I barely feel it. I do feel when she yanks the blade free. It's too much. My vision blackens and the next thing I know I'm staring at the ceiling.

Everything is cold, and far away. A tiny head moves into my line of sight. I know I should try to move, try to get away from her, but I can't summon the energy or the will. My limbs are cold, heavy bracken that I can barely feel. The head brings something to it—her—lips—the knife—and licks it free. I hear a giggle, and something about her Daddy being mad she'd made a mess, but the rest of the words are lost in the haze surrounding me.

Sam, I think.

I need to get up, stop her before she hurts Sam. Or Dad. But any thought of movement dies in a white-hot super nova of pain as she kneels on my chest. The pain momentarily clears my head and panic hits. I need to kill her now. Panic gives me strength. I lunge upward, toppling her to the floor. She falls in a surprised heap of purple taffeta and I follow her, eyes intent on the knife in her hand.

I rip it from her and with every ounce of my waning energy, I drive it into her throat. She flails but I pin her under me, my body dead weight across her. Desperate, I saw, holding her head down with my casted arm. Blood spurts up, hot and thick, but I ignore it. My vision is a dark tunnel. All I can see in my knife, her throat. Somehow I know if I can cut all the way through, she'll be dead. And not just the host—the demon.

The demon knows it too. She pushes against me frantically but it's too late. I can't feel her hands as they claw into my biceps, can't feel her feet kicking my shins. That all stops as her head separates from her body. I rip it free and stare at the black smoke leaking out along with the blood. It pools on the floor and with the last of my strength I slap my hand down. There's a rush of wind, of static, a shriek I can feel all the way down to my bones, and when I lift my hand there's nothing there except for a few final curls of smoke.

Good, I think. And then my eyes roll back into my skull. The last thing I see is the final afterimage of the bloody floor.