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They're only passing through, just having finished a salt and burn in Washington, and heading for southern California. The trees are all tall and pine, the road a twisting curve between the thick forests, and the air that slips through the barely cracked windows is rich with the smell of looming rain.
Sam's asleep across the back seats, and Dean's humming along to the radio.
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The little girl falls flat onto the pavement, tumbling from within the trees between one moment and the next.
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Dean slams on the breaks, swearing, and his brother is thrown onto the floor of the impala with a yelp. The car screeches to a halt, black lines of rubber left in its wake. Before Dean can even unbuckle his seat belt, the child is already struggling up, twisting around, disheveled hair swinging, and spots them.
"Help!" she sobs, and stumbles toward them, tears leaking over blistered cheeks. "Help me, please!"
It's only as Dean jumps out, palming the rifle from under his seat, does he smell the smoke, and sees the sky has darkened nearly to dusk. Firelight illuminates the woods.
"Stop!" he barks, leveling the barrel, and spots Sam out of the corner of his eye, doing the same.
Only a few feet away and with eyes wide with fear, she staggers to a stop, dried blood painting a rusty curtain across her forehead. Her clothes are torn, full of twigs and dirt where they're not burnt through with holes, and one sooty sock covers a hand.
He shares a quick glance with Sam.
What the hell?
"P-Please," she hiccups, free hand curling tight into the ruined fabric of her sweater, "my G-Grunkle Stan, he fell, and Candy—"
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A scream rends the air, the hair on Dean's neck standing on end, and the girl whips around. "No!" she screams, and makes to climb back up the embankment, dragging one limping leg behind her.
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It's a split second decision, and he's moving before he really means to, stooping low to grab the child around the waist. Something's in these woods, and she'd run right back to her death. The girl fights him, screams and yells as he hoists her up, and sprints back to the car.
Sam's already in the driver's seat, the back door open. Dean stuffs the girl in first, and then himself, slamming the door shut. "Go, Sam!" he snaps, and then they're peeling down the road, the screech of the impala's tires loud in his ears.
They're clearing the first curve when Dean finally looks back, chest heaving. A small figure stands in the middle of the road they leave behind, but it's too far to see clearly, and then there's just more trees, brown blurs.
He turns back to the girl, now curled tightly up against the opposite door. Her eyes are still wide, staring blankly ahead, and tears flowing in a steady stream, but she's quiet.
A throat clears, and Dean meets his brother's eyes in the rear view mirror. He looks from Dean toward the girl, eyebrows high. Dean shakes his head, and reaches a hand toward the child.
"Hey," he starts, fingers hovering, hesitant, "what's your name? Do you know what happened?"
Dark brown eyes slide to meet his, and she curls if possible even tighter, sock hand clutched tight to her chest. He sees that it's a sock puppet now, with a tiny vest and hat. It's kinda ugly from this angle, which, inappropriate right now. Jesus.
The girl doesn't answer, and closes her eyes, leans forward so her hair hides them. It starts to rain then, a heavy downpour, and Sam slowly decelerates, and maybe they've put enough distance between them and whatever that thing was by now.
"It's gonna be okay," he continues, unsure of how true that will be, and draws away his hand.
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A couple minutes pass.
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"M-Mabel," comes a muffled voice, sudden and jarring, and Dean jerks back because.
Because the girl didn't say that. It's a little lower, wobbly, but definitely not the voice he'd heard earlier
"Mabel," comes the voice again, and he sees the sock over her hand shiver, ripple like a curtain to a breeze, "M-Mabel."
She starts to tremble, breaths coming faster. Mabel, he thinks, starts to sob in earnest, each keening cry shaking her tiny body. The sock wriggles free, and both her hands fly toward her face, scrubbing ruthlessly as she cries harder, and harder.
Stunned, Dean's mind has ground to a halt, and a quiet curse comes from the driver's seat.
The sock is floating, bobbing jerkily in the air just by the child's singed head. It turns toward him after a moment, googly eyes eerily focused.
"P-Please help u-us," it whimpers, and shit it sounds just like a kid too.
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But, there's no time, no moments to spare for comfort, because the car hikes up, running something over. Dean's head slams into the roof, and the little girl and sock go tumbling with twin yelps. It's barely a heartbeat later the front windshield is caving in with a loud crack, and the car leans suddenly to one side.
"Brace yourselves!" Sam yells as a dark liquid splashes across the splintered glass.
He has only a moment to throw himself over the kid before the car swerves, and then flips, Sam losing control.
Cas! he yells, pain shooting up his arms and legs as the impala goes side over side, an ugly kaleidoscope of revolving dark and light, screams.
It's an eternity before the car grinds to a stop on its roof.
Dean groans as he lets go. He lands hard on the top of the impala, the kid falling onto his chest and the sock over his face.
"Sam," he groans, and there's the unmistakable click of a releasing seat belt, a returning thump and grunt.
Fuck, Dean thinks, lit with pain, as scuffed black shoes enter his vision.
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There's a laugh, and—
"Oh, Pine Tree, Shooting Star! Did you really think I'd ever let either of you go?"