Disclaimer: Winchesters. Not mine.
A/N: As promised, another chapter. I swear, they just keep getting longer. Now, I'm off to study. I keep saying that, but I really mean it this time...kind of. :) Anyways, review? Pleeeeeeaaasssseeeee?
Dean didn't take long to get back with the food. He held two bags of fast food up by way of greeting, and I raised my eyebrows. If this was how they consistently ate, then I did not understand how they were in such great shape. Maybe hunting things was a really good workout. Not that I was complaining—about the fast food…or about them being in shape, really. Either way, at this point, I was hungry enough to appreciate greasy dollar menu items.
There were only two chairs at the table, so Dean ended up sitting on the corner of the dresser holding the TV. He opened one of the bags and dug out a round, wrapped bundle. "Alright, I got the goods. Crispy chicken sandwich for Riley." He tossed it to me, and I practically salivated as I unwrapped it. "Bacon cheeseburgers for me," he continued, pulling two burgers, "and rabbit food for Sammy." Sam rolled his eyes, but accepted the plastic box of salad nonetheless.
I shook my head, standing and spinning my chair around to face the table. I spread my wrapper out on the table and opened my sandwich, rearranging the lettuce shreds and chicken patty to my satisfaction. Sam cleared his throat, frowning absently as he popped the container of salad open and speared a tomato with his fork. He ate it, leaving the fork in his mouth for a second as he swiped a finger across the mouse pad.
I caught a glimpse of a face on the screen, and surprisingly enough, it was a face I knew. I did a double take, leaning sideways to get a better view. "Why do you have a picture of Mr. Stro—"
I dropped off when I actually saw it more clearly. It was one of those morgue pictures—the type where you see the chest and head of the person against a stark metal table. I'd seen them enough in cop shows, but to see one of someone I recognized was totally different. Mr. Strom didn't look like the friendly old man I knew him to be. He just looked dead, with a wound on his neck that matched the one on mine, and it made my chest ache. Vampires had killed him. Vampires that had been looking for me.
"Uh, you knew him?" Sam asked. He angled his laptop away from me, trying to be subtle, but I noticed it anyway, and I was grateful. Because try as I might, I couldn't drag my eyes away from the screen until he forcibly broke my sightline to the picture. I swallowed hard, looking down at the table, my appetite suddenly gone.
Then, remembering that he'd asked me something, I nodded as I picked at the table's cheap laminate surface with a finger. "Yeah, Aaron—my older brother—and I used to mow his lawn for him. Well, Aaron did. I was like nine, so I used to just sit on the porch and eat ice cream bars with Mr. Strom while we watched Aaron mow. He didn't have any family, so I think he was just lonely."
Every Saturday for a year, I had spent an hour blabbering away to that wrinkled old man about anything and everything, and he had dutifully listened, like my words were the most important thing in the world. I frowned, remembering how sweet and kind he had been. He didn't deserve to die like that.
No one deserved to die like that.
"No family means no one to miss him," Sam said quietly. "His bo…he…wasn't found as quickly that way." I stared down at the table, thinking how sad that was. If I was gone, people would miss me. My family, Libby…but no one had missed Mr. Strom—not right away—and that seemed kind of horrible.
Sam pushed his salad away for a second, twisting in his chair to conference with Dean. "They're hunting smart. This makes six deaths, counting the trail of four leading up from Ashland."
Dean sighed, balling up the paper wrapper from one of his burgers and throwing it at the now clean trashcan. "So how many you thinking? Two? We need to find these sons-of-bitches before they drop any more bodies."
Like it was that simple. Kill them before they kill anyone else. Something inside me changed, and instead of the drowning feeling of my constant fear, there was a speck of cold forming in my chest. It was icy and calm and furious, and I couldn't tell if that was worse than being scared.
"Hey," Dean said softly, nudging my shoulder and breaking me out of my thoughts. "Eat." I looked down at the sandwich in my hand, and I ate it, but I didn't really taste it. All I could think about was kind, old Mr. Strom, and how much I wanted the vampires to pay.
My hand twitched again. But this time I wasn't weirded out or nervous about it. This time I wanted a knife, for entirely different reasons. Reasons that didn't involve self-defense.
Sam and Dean left me alone in my thoughts for the rest of the evening. I took up residence in the hideous overstuffed chair in the corner and basically retreated into radio silence. I think they at least partially understood how lost and overwhelmed I was feeling, because they let me be.
Time passed. Dean puttered around cleaning guns and other various weapons, and Sam remained hunched over his laptop, typing and reading away. They made some calls, but that was about it. Eventually Dean's hummed melodies and random old-school references grew incoherent enough that Sam closed the lid of his laptop and rubbed his eyes.
"Two vamps," he announced, dropping his forehead onto a hand. "Judging by the body count and patterns of bites, that's how many we're dealing with. I haven't found any recent missing persons reports, but if they've turned anyone since being here…" Dean nodded thoughtfully, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, the one that was now Riley-Toxic comforter free. Sam stood up and stretched, practically able to touch the ceiling. "Bout time?" He murmured tiredly.
"Yeah," Dean agreed with a yawn. "I could use a siesta." They both turned to look at me, and I shrugged, completely indifferent. I wasn't tired, but it was clear that they were. Dean yawned again—glancing at the beds—and narrowed his eyes. I could practically see the gears turning as he did the math.
He turned to Sam, who was already flattening one hand out and making a fist with the other. Dean scowled and matched him. I rolled my eyes, watching as they played rock-paper-scissors over a bed. Dean threw a scissors and Sam threw a rock.
"Shut up," Dean said, even though no one was talking. "Best two out of three."
Sam shook his head, moving his bag to the open bed. "Not a chance, dude."
"I can just sleep in this chair," I said, breaking my silence for the first time in hours. Dean's forehead wrinkled, and he looked like he was going to say something, but I went on quickly. "Just give me the one man tent, and I'll be fine." I motioned with a finger to Sam's enormous jacket as I said it, and Dean snorted.
"Hah, hah. Very funny," Sam said, but he gave it to me anyway.
They both stretched out on the beds and were asleep in minutes, which I found quite impressive. Usually it took me forever to shut my brain off enough to go to sleep. Clearly, they didn't have that problem. Lucky ducks.
I sighed, shifting in the chair. It wasn't very comfortable, but that was okay. I didn't plan on sleeping tonight, not when headless bodies and dead friends were seared into my retinas and floating foremost in my brain.
I sighed again, huddling down behind the makeshift blanket that was Sam's jacket. It draped over my shoulders and down the front of me nicely, creating a barrier between me and the world. It smelled good, too. Kind of like gun powder, cheap soap, and a faint sweaty, guy smell. It was nice—safe, even.
Or maybe I was just strung out and exhausted from the last few days, and it was causing me to form exaggerated emotional attachments to objects that weren't mine. That's probably what my best friend, Libby, would say. She was really big into the psychology and psychoanalyzing thing. It didn't help that her parents were therapists.
Whatever, it wasn't important. I snuggled down sideways and rested my cheek against the back of the chair. The clock proclaimed it midnight, but I wasn't tired, which meant I had six or seven more hours of trying not to think about why the vampires might want me or why my birth certificate was M.I.A.
Yeah, tonight—or technically this morning—was going to be just awesome.
Sam woke up exactly at six without even using an alarm clock, which I thought was even more impressive. Although when he suddenly sat up and turned to look at Dean, it did scare the crap out of me. But it was sweet, I thought, that his first waking action was to look for his brother. I wondered if my brothers ever felt that way about me. If they are even your real brothers, sneered the nasty voice in the back of my mind. Shut up, you, I mentally called back, only slightly disturbed that I was arguing with myself.
And I also felt slightly like a creeper, just sitting there and watching Sam as he reached down to his duffel to dig out some clothes. He hesitated and, after a quick glance in my direction, went to the bathroom to change. A minute later, he came out wearing basketball shorts and a ratty shirt. After casting another watchful glance over Dean, he gave me a half-wave and headed out the door.
I sighed, stretching my legs out for a second before pulling them back behind warmth and comfort of the jacket. I frowned, wondering vaguely if Sam would notice if said jacket mysteriously disappeared. I snorted at the thought and chastised myself for turning my thoughts towards robbery. Day four without family contact, and I was already on the path to crime.
"You get any sleep last night?" Dean's question was sleepy and muffled, but it still startled me. I couldn't tell if he was still asleep or not, but then his head lifted off the pillow, and he eyed me through heavy lids.
"Yeah," I said, infusing cheerfulness that I didn't feel into my voice.
"Liar," he said slowly, calling me out on it as he dragged himself upright with a yawn.
"Yeah," I repeated, completely uncaring. Wow, contemplation of petty theft and perjury within a minute of each other. I definitely needed my family, or at least Libby, to come back and keep me on the straight and narrow.
Dean looked over at me, and I was suddenly glad for the wall of Sam's jacket, because his intense stare was making me uncomfortable. "Sam went running," I dutifully reported, wanting him to stop pinning me in place with those knowing green eyes. He yawned and rubbed his face with a hand, finally looking away. I relaxed, feeling silly.
Then a few seconds later, Dean surprised me. "You want to talk about it?" His voice was quiet and gruff, and I could hear the sincerity of the offer within his words.
Did I want to talk about it? "No," I said, quite succinctly.
He snorted. "Good. 'Cause I don't do chick-flick moments." And just like that the mood shifted to something lighter. I was grateful, but not grateful enough to rein in the next of my seemingly unending bank of questions.
"Isn't it kind of, I don't know, dangerous for Sam to go running by himself? Knowing what's out there?" If I killed monsters for a living, I don't think I'd be able to go anywhere by myself. At least not without being heavily armed, which Sam hadn't appeared to be.
"Eh, Sammy can take care of himself. Besides, monsters don't tend to search us out, kind of what makes us Hunters." Dean quieted for a thoughtful minute, then turned and pinned me in place again with his heavy gaze. "You ready for this? If you go home, there's no guarantee that you'll be safe." The warning was clear enough, but unnecessary. I knew the risks.
I shrugged, finally pushing my legs out of my warm cocoon. "Yeah, well, I don't need safe. I just need this to be over." Over before anyone else got hurt because of me.
As if he knew what I was thinking, Dean shook his head. "This isn't your fault, you know."
I just looked at him. "Isn't it?"
"No, it's not," he said sharply and left it at that as he got up and went into the bathroom.
As Dean took a shower, I paced around the room and tried to figure out how this wasn't my fault. The vampires were here for me. I might not know why, but it was still on me. Anyone who died, well, that was on me, too.
Sam got back from his run, and I was saved from further self-incrimination, because he came bearing gifts. Coffee—my liquid lifesaver in a cup. And, even better, it was from my favorite coffee shop. He must have stopped off at Beanies on the tail-end of his run.
Dean appeared again, as if drawn out of the bathroom by the aroma of caffeine and deliciousness. He took one of the cups, and Sam replaced him in the bathroom. I sat in the chair, hands clutched around my precious drink, as Dean got things ready. He pulled out both of the wicked looking machetes and began running the blades over a whetstone. They rasped smoothly against the stone, making my hand twitch.
Unfortunately, Dean saw it, and he sent me a questioning look. I shrugged helplessly, not sure what to say in regards to my seemingly independent right hand. He hefted one of the machetes, holding it at eye level and sighting down the blade. Then he reversed it and offered it to me.
I stared at it with wide eyes, and my hand twitched again, this time in anticipation. I wanted to hold it; I wanted to pick it up, to use it. I wanted to so badly that it scared me. With slow, careful movements, I picked it up. My hand tightened around the hilt, and the vague feeling of missing something faded away. I let out a breath that I didn't know I'd been holding as I tested out the weight. It was heavier than I would have thought, but it felt…right. It felt like a part of me, which made absolutely no sense at all.
"Feels good, doesn't it? Safe, reassuring." I glanced up at Dean, seeing the understanding in his eyes.
"Yeah," I said quietly. Then I shook my head and handed it back to him. "Too good." He didn't understand, that much was clear, but I just shrugged instead of explaining.
Holding the blade made me feel strong and powerful, like I could do anything, and yet…I didn't want that. I didn't want to cut a vampire's head off. I wanted to stop being scared, yes, but I didn't want to be a killer. That wasn't me, and I wasn't sure I ever wanted it to be. You didn't seem to mind running Chompy over in your car, needled the nasty voice in the back of my head. I pushed past the thought with annoyance. Sam and Dean were strong, and they did what needed to be done. They did it so that others wouldn't have to, and right now, I was one of those others. And I was okay with that.
Dean opened his mouth to say something, but there was no more time for discussion. Sam came out of the bathroom, done with his shower, and we were ready to go. I grabbed my few meager things from the nightstand drawer and left the motel room without a backwards glance.
Sam and Dean followed me out—weapons stowed safely out of sight in jackets and duffels—and pointed me towards the coolest looking car I had ever seen in Eagle Point. It was long and black and menacing, and I was only partially sure that it wasn't a tank in disguise. Sam and Dean tossed their stuff in the backseat, and I climbed in next to the bags, excitement rising as Dean turned on the car. The engine purred, and I felt pretty bad-ass, even if only by proxy.
Dean pulled out of the parking lot, and I hunched low in the back seat while feeding him directions to my house. I didn't want anyone to see me with them, because, undoubtedly, it would be someone that knew me. They would probably wonder why I was with two much older strangers—men, no less—and would tell my parents. And my parents would, in turn, want to know exactly what I did during their absence, and there was no way I was going to bring up Hunters and vampires into our dinner time conversation. So, in the long run, it was just best that I stay out of sight.
It wasn't that hard, really. A few miles later, we were outside city limits and headed towards my house, which was a little ways out in the country. As soon as that happened, I only need to slouch down if I saw another car coming.
If Sam or Dean thought my antics were crazy, they didn't say anything. Something for which I was immeasurably grateful. Then again, maybe crazy took on a whole new meaning for them. Maybe my weirdness constituted as their normal. I shook my head, kind of awed at that thought, and focused on where we were going.
My house wasn't too far out, and we reached it within ten minutes. Dean drove past it, only pulling over when we were a comfortable distance down the road. "Got 'em?" He asked Sam.
"Yeah, just a second," was Sam's reply as he opened the glove compartment and fished out a pair of binoculars. They took turns studying my house, and I told them which windows were which. They didn't offer me a look, though, which I was slightly annoyed at, but then again, they were the professionals, so I didn't argue.
"Looks pretty clear," Dean murmured, eyes still glued to the binoculars. Sam grunted his agreement, shifting his long legs around uncomfortably.
My phone went off, startling us all, and I hurried to check who was calling. "It's the sheriff," I hissed, panic racing through me. "What do I do?" I was whispering even though there was no logical reason to do so.
"Don't answer it."
"Answer it."
The answers came at the exact same time, and I looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, unsure what to do in light of the mixed messages. Sam smacked Dean's shoulder lightly with a hand. "Answer it," he repeated without a trace of uncertainty, so I did.
"Hi, Bob," I said, trying to keep any dread or misgivings out of my voice.
"Hiya, Riley. I was calling to ask if you knew where Sara is? She hasn't been into the clinic for a few days, and I thought you might know." He didn't sound especially suspicious or accusatory, so maybe I wasn't going to be arrested or go to prison for the rest of my life.
"Sara's gone?" I asked, putting what I hoped was the right amount of confusion into the question. "Gosh, uh, she was there on Monday. That's the last time I saw her." That part was true at least.
Sam and Dean were both watching me carefully, probably looking for any indication that the conversation was going South. I rolled my eyes and pointedly turned away to look out the window, unable to stand their dual intensity.
"And you haven't been to the clinic since then?" Bob sounded uncertain on that last part, and I smoothly filled in an answer.
"No, I'm only scheduled to volunteer on Mondays and Fridays. Sorry." Another truth—mostly. I might be only scheduled two days a week, but I usually showed up every day, if only for a few hours. Still, Bob didn't know that.
A thought popped into my head, and I almost felt bad. "You could ask Jessie, though. She works on Wednesdays, so she might have a better idea of any plans Sara had or whatever." Jessie was Sara's assistant, but I already knew she wouldn't have any idea where Sara was either. Sara wasn't just missing; she wasn't answering her phone. Which, for Sara, was the equivalent of being…dead.
I faltered at that last thought, because it was something Sara and I joked about all the time. But now? Now it could actually be true. I swallowed hard, staring down into my lap.
"Alright, thanks for your help, Riley. We'll keep looking. Let me know if she gets in touch with you, okay?" He still sounded normal, if a little perplexed. That was a good sign. It meant he bought my story, which really was actually quite accurate and truthful. Kind of.
"Okay. Bye, Bob," I said, hanging up and feeling like a horrible person.
Dean smirked at me in the rear view mirror. "Sheriff Bob? That's adorable."
"Oh hush. He's a family friend," I said, reaching over the seat to slap his arm. I couldn't help but grin, though.
Then my grin faded as I looked over at my house. There could be vampires in there for all I knew. Now was not the time to joke around. Dean lost his smirk as well, getting into serious mode. "You good?" Sam asked quietly.
I glanced over at him and then back to my house. "Yeah, I can do this." And I wasn't even lying as I said it. I could do this. If there were vampires in my house, they weren't there to kill me. Turn me, probably. Kill me, no. That put me one step ahead of them on that point. My stomach was roiling with apprehension, but it was no longer mind-numbing terror, and that put me a second step ahead.
I nodded resolutely and climbed out of the car. Dean climbed out as well, reaching inside his jacket and producing a syringe full of dark red liquid. I swallowed hard, knowing the red liquid was most likely blood. At this point, what else would it be?
"Think of this as a Vamp tranquilizer," Dean said, seeing me hesitate. Tranquilizer. I could work with that. I'd administered it to animals at the clinic often enough.
I took the syringe from him and stared down at it, biting my lip. "You have two minutes to draw them out if they're there. Then we're coming in," he said, dropping a hand onto my shoulder. I was ridiculously proud that I didn't jump. After a moment, I pulled my eyes away from the syringe to look up at them. They were both leaning against the car with genuine casualness, like hunting monsters was no big deal. "You can do this," Dean said, giving my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
"I can do this," I echoed, though my words were way less confident that his. I took a deep breath and turned towards my house. My house. I wasn't supposed to be afraid of my own house. Anger suffused through me, slowly starting to burn away my fear. It was my house, not theirs. Squaring my shoulders, I started walking, one foot in front of the other, and I didn't look back.
My steps ate through the distance like it was nothing, and soon enough, I was staring at my front door. Ready or not, here I come, I thought coldly. And with that, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.