The car jostles as you continue to stare absentmindedly out the passenger window. You have been watching the rolling flatlands that stretch on miles towards the horizon for quite some time. With an elbow propping over the window sill and your right hand pressing against your cheek, your thoughts trail relentlessly back to the events a few nights ago. You haven't seen Castiel since, and you suppose he's making himself scarce.
Lyss's warning runs on a loop in your mind, and you're still unsure of how you're going to achieve your bold claims. You're starting to wonder if your determination was half derived from naivety, and that you've jumped the gun on your decision. The angel certainly didn't seem too eager on clarifying whatever there is between you with the way he departed.
~… Castiel grits his teeth. "I can't…."~
You draw out a long but silent sigh.
"Who's the guy you're thinking about?"
You blink, startled. Looking over to Dean, you catch the devious amusement on his face. You immediately drop the surprise from your visage, putting on an air of nonchalance instead.
At the change in your expression, Dean only grins deeper. "I knew it. So who was it?"
You retain your nonchalance and casually slide your attention back to the road. "You've got a keen eye, Dean."
The man chuckles.
"It wasn't one guy, though." You say, measuring his expression. "It was two."
"Oh?" Dean pitches a suggestive tone.
The edges of your lips twitch. "Yep. I recently did some browsing on the internet. Have you ever heard of a thing called fanfiction?" At the man's blank expression, you continue. "You'd be surprised at how popular it is. Particularly the number of fans of Supernatural- you know, the book series about your life-, and the amount of stories they've written with their own take on the subject. I didn't know incest between two brothers would be such a prominent genre…" Before you can finish, the car lurches to a halt. Having prepared for his objection, you held out a hand against the dashboard, cushioning the impact.
With a look of utter revulsion, Dean angrily turns to you. "I swear to God, Alice. If you ever mention those books or anything even remotely touching the subject again, I. Will. Shoot. You."
Your face is a picture of innocence. "Really, Dean. Is that necessary? I was only answering your question."
The man scowls, successfully deterred from the earlier topic. Pressing against the gas pedal, he pulls back en route.
You inwardly smile, content to have successfully distracted him. Taking your hand off the dashboard, the silver bracelet slides down your arm. You notice it catching Dean's attention.
"Since when did you start wearing jewelry?"
You trace a finger over the engravings in the metal. "Since two days ago."
There's a spark of memory in his gaze. "You started wearing it the night we stayed at that fancy hotel, right? Does it do anything?"
You smirk. "Why do you think it does anything?"
"Don't really figure you for a jewelry wearing gal." Dean scoffs. "Plus, I'm pretty sure those etchings aren't found on your everyday friendship bracelets."
You interlace your fingers and pull your arms into a stretch. "You're right. This bracelet holds back the Wikkōn power. This way, I won't have to worry about tearing houses apart every time someone pisses me off."
Dean shifts in his seat, passing you a curious glance. "Where did you get it?"
"I found the ingredients to make it in my handy dandy spell book. Got the whole thing done while you were out getting dinner."
"Huh." The remark denotes a hint of skepticism. "Speaking of your Wikkōn powers, it's about time I got some answers."
"Yes?" You ask tentatively.
"Now that you know more about yourself and that other person living in your head and whatnot..."
You raise an eyebrow at the wording, but you're glad he's decided not to pursue the bracelet.
"I'm still really curious at how you got to be so lucky."
You snort. "If I really was lucky, we wouldn't be facing Armageddon right now." At Dean's impatient look, you drop the cheekiness. Creasing your brows, you think back to your past lives, then to the fragmented memories of Lyss. You chew your lip. "I'm actually still unsure. The reason is most likely with Lyss. It been a while now, but I still only see glimpses of her life."
~…"Being a protector means you must always put the wellbeing of the world above anything else, and harboring feelings for another singular being would jeopardize that fealty."…~
You frown.
"Right. And what about the way you fight?" Dean's eager question is a welcomed distraction.
You nod and grin. "Well, originally, I always thought it was instinct, that I was just a natural born fighter. But now that I have my memories back, things make a bit more sense. Given the amount of times I reincarnated, you're bound to pick up a few tricks. Despite me not remembering what I am, I was still drawn to the supernatural in pretty much every one of my former lives. As a means to protect myself, I became acquainted with people who were willing to teach me. With each new life, I steadily got better."
Dean nods slowly, mulling over your explanation. "And you've been doing this song and dance how many times now?"
You smile. "Hard to count, but I would say nearly a hundred?"
"And no one ever taught you how to use a gun?"
Irritation pricks you. "Guns aren't exactly the most useful when it comes to hunting the supernatural. Watching you and Sam clearly proved that."
There's a passing flicker of tension in Dean at the mention of his brother, but is quickly passed over by his bristling demeanor. "Then you haven't been watching closely enough. I can name more than a dozen times where carrying one saved my ass. A hunter needs to know their way around a firearm, a good one anyways."
You narrow your eyes at his provocative smirk. "Are you insinuating I'm a bad hunter because I prefer not to use guns?"
Dean's chin is upturned. "Hey, your words, not mine."
You purse your lips at the show of conceit. "Now correct me if I'm wrong, but when we fought against those demons a while back, if it wasn't for me, I'm pretty sure it would've been you lying on that stone slab in chunks."
You strike a chord with that statement. Annoyance gleams in his eyes, but he continues to smile. "Oh, it's on." Dean mutters under his breath. Veering to you, he pins you with a heated glare. "You think you can out hunt me?"
You meet his provocation head on. "Dean, I have thousands of years of hunting experience. You don't want to do this."
Dean leans back, his ego unyielding. "Alright then, little Miss Immortal. Why don't you put money where your mouth is, and we make this interesting."
Your eyes flash at the deriding title. "What do you have in mind, your holiness?"
Dean gives a strained chuckle, his fingers tightening over the steering wheel. "Next job, first person to take down whatever vampire, werewolf, or creeper in the night wins. If there's more than one, then it's whoever ganks the most."
You grin approvingly. "Straight forward and simple."
"And when I win." Dean casts a warning glance to you sidled with a victorious beam. "You are never going to mention or look at anything relating to the Supernatural books again."
You muse at the proposition. It's hardly a worthwhile prize, but this wager is really a means to assert one's pride over the other. And you're not about to endure his arrogant proclamations even if you're thousands of years older than him. Furthermore, this could be a rare opportunity to finally address certain issues.
"I accept."
Dean relaxes back into his seat. You cut his look of content short.
"However, if I win, you have to call Sam and check up on him."
Dean blinks, the request catching him off guard. He frowns.
It's been weeks since the two brothers conversed, and while you've been contacting Sam every now and again to see how he was doing, you believe it is about time for the two of them to reconcile. Sam is still dark with remorse, and until Dean verbally forgives him, you don't think Sam is going to have a good night's rest.
"Do we have a deal?" You extend a waiting hand to the hunter.
Dean stares at the gesture, his jaw tightening. Reaching over, he roughly grasps your hand. With a firm shake, the two of you seal the bet.
…
It's around noon when you arrive in a small town in West Virginia. Feeling hunger pangs, Dean soon pulls the car to a diner on one of the busier streets. While you get out of the Impala to stretch your legs, your companion surveys the menu posted on the window next to the entrance. An old couple exits the establishment and notices Dean. They're friendly enough to greet the two of you, and when they insist that this diner is best in town and famous for their beef burgers and rhubarb pie, Dean's face lights up like a tree on Christmas Eve.
Once the waitress guides the two of you to a booth, Dean doesn't even bother with the menus and immediately gives his order. Not willing to make the waitress wait, you settle for a light salad. Your appetite has been diminishing as of late, and nothing seems to appeal to your tastes. You wonder if it's due to stress. When the meals arrive, Dean rubs his hands together in anticipation.
"Enjoy." The woman says as she places the plate in front of him.
Dean immediately picks the burger off the plate. "Oh, I intend to." He sends the lady a quick grin before taking a large mouthful.
You thank the waitress for the salad. Once she leaves, you turn back to the man scarfing down the burger across from you. Your appetite drops a fraction more.
"You know we're not on any schedule right? You don't have to eat so fast."
Dean's eyes roll back into his head. "Hosh ish sho hwood!" He quickly chews his mouthful and swallows. "Damn, that's a good burger." Noticing your hesitating stare, he shrugs. "Habit." The man then eyes the lackluster salad sitting in front of you. "You sure you don't want to order the burger instead? You're missing out."
Dean's words hardly register as you're currently more attuned to the hustle of bodies chattering around the diner, more specifically, the two women sitting in the booth behind you. They arrived shortly after you gave your orders, and one of them seemed particularly distressed. Your thumb and index trail the stem of your fork as you try to hone in on their conversation. Normally, the discussions of strangers don't interest you, but the ashen look on the woman's face as she passed you peaked your interest.
"Hey, you with me?" Dean waves a hand in front of you.
You hold up two fingers to silence him. Tilting your head just a fraction, you signal for him to focus on the pair behind you. The precarious senses of a hunter take hold in an instant. While he continues to look the part of an average customer, a keen observer might notice the glimmering flash in the man's eyes or the slight edge of tension riding his form. You admit his countenance proves all the markings of an experienced hunter. Adopting a similar posture of feigned leisure, you converge all your attention to the troubled woman's ramble.
"It's been three days already, and he still hasn't contacted me. I don't know what to do. And the police have no idea where to look. Oh my God, Cheryl! What if he's dead?"
"Calm down. It's only been three days. He could still turn up. And like you said, he just walked out of the house right? It's not like he was forcibly taken. Maybe he just needs some time alone because of some stuff. You know how he gets sometimes."
"But never like this! No matter how depressed he got, he never just leaves and not contact me! Something is wrong, I know it! Oh God. And then there's just…."
"What's wrong? What else happened?"
There's a brief silence, and you strain your ears.
"Tell me, Ems, I'm here for you."
"…Oh God, I-I don't know. It's just how he was before he left. I've never seen him act that way before, you know? It was like this… dark calm that just took over. He seemed completely different. And the way Mark looked at me." The woman shudders. "I-I thought he wanted to hurt me…"
"Mark? Are you sure?" The incredulous tone in the friend's voice suggests this Mark must have acted drastically out of character. "Look. The county sheriff's already put out an APB for Mark. We'll wait another day or two, and if we still don't hear anything, the whole town is gonna send out a search party."
The woman sighs. "What is happening, Cheryl? Why are so many people disappearing?"
"I don't know. But we'll figure it out. I'll do whatever I can to help."
When the two women leave, you slide your attention back to Dean. "You got all that?"
There's a growing grin on the man's face. "Looks like we just found our case. Get ready to lose, Alice."
Your eyes glint with a look that says: in your dreams.
XX
"Hey, look at this."
You tear your eyes away from the last sentence on the missing person's documents you're holding. There have been twelve people missing in just the past month, most claiming similar stories where the missing person acted strangely before walking out on their own. You're now without a doubt that this is one of your cases. You walk over to Dean sitting at a standard table with your laptop. The motel you checked into is the better one of the only two in town. The room has much of the normal amenities expected: two simple beds, a small TV, and a drawer. The walls are covered with fading wallpaper and the floor is rolled with dark worn carpet.
A fleeting emotion takes you as you watch Dean's back. You remember it was usually Sam's job to research on the net, and your mind superimposes Sam's frame over Dean's hunched figure. If Sam were here, the older hunter would then be mulling things out on top of the bed or staring at a web of information they made on one of the walls. You shake your head of the thought and focus on what Dean is trying to show you.
"So what is it?" You say as you press a hand on the table, leaning over him.
Dean twists around in his seat and pulls his elbow across the top of his backrest. "I've been looking through what your friend was able to dig out on the missing profiles. And other than how they all walked off by themselves, there were no similarities in their age, gender, occupation, personalities, or even the people they knew. There's nothing tying them together. Whatever's taking them, it's choosing their victims randomly."
You take a chair next to him and pull the screen towards you. "So you have no idea what kind of monster could be doing this?"
Dean shrugs. "There's usually a pattern. I was thinking maybe a witch, but none of these people have a shared person that connects them." His head rolls back, and he rubs his eyes. "We're gonna have to visit every one of their houses." He huffs out an aggravated sigh, an opinion you concur with.
Normally, if it were only one or two houses, you wouldn't mind exploring. But when you have to don your FBI disguises to more than ten houses, not only is the constant acting extremely tiring, but you run the chances of revealing yourselves. Last thing any of you want is a dispute with the local authorities, a toiling situation that Sam and Dean experienced multiple times and recounted to you.
You squint, something in the list of records catches your scrutiny. "Hey, what about this?"
Dean looks over to you with tired eyes. "What?"
"Marc Patel has a medical record of clinical depression. He must be the brother they were talking about."
Dean sighs. "Yeah, we know that already. But none of the others have it."
You continue to read. "John Medina, age 19, juvie record for repeated vandalism and shop lifting. April Payne, age 34, goes to a support group for Alcoholics Anonymous. Judy Mills, age 48, also has a juvie record. Nick Dixon, age 26, gambling addict." You continue to pick out the list of petty crime and minor mishaps mentioned in every one of the victim profiles.
"What are you trying to say?"
You cock your head trying to make sense of your findings. "This may not be much, but it feels like every one of them has something bad that they're dealing with. Maybe that's what links them."
Dean shoots you doubtful look. "C'mon Alice, you're grasping at straws here. Look hard enough, and you'll be able to find some sort of bad in everyone. That's not a link."
You exhale and lean back, shutting the lid on your laptop. "Well, that's all we've got. Might as well mark it down."
Dean sighs again, but he then bolts up, excitement lighting his face. "So what are we waiting for, time to break out the suits."
You raise an eyebrow. "What are you all excited about? Thought you hated house visits."
He grins. "I do. But I'm hungry. So while we're out, I want another burger."
XXX
You watch the husband and wife console each other in the living room from your peripherals as Dean is looking around the dining room window. When he taps the sill, it draws your attention.
"Yep. Same black smudge."
You cross the space to survey the thin dark trail near the edge of the window sill. As Dean pushes the window upwards, a larger blot of black appears on the underside of the frame.
This is the fourth house you've visited and because of Dean's sharp eyes, you were able to discover similar black markings on one of the windows in every victims' home.
"Wanna bet we'll find the same black stain on the rest of the houses?" Dean eases his back against a wall and crosses his arms.
You straighten from your hunched position, squinting at the window. You take a step back and orient yourself. Dean watches you curiously as you spin around in place.
"If you wanna catch your tail, you'll hafta turn faster than that."
You can hear the smirk in his voice without looking at him. Ignoring the man's jeers, your eyes veer back to the window. "The window's facing the west." You state simply.
Dean's gaze flickers to the front yard, watching the position of the shadows. "More or less. And?"
Your forehead puckers as you try to recall the placement of the smudge in the last few houses. "They were all facing west…."
When Dean couldn't quite catch your mumbling, he cocks his ear towards you. "Come again?"
You turn to him with a cognizant glint in your eyes. "Every window or doorway where we found the smudge was facing towards the west."
With narrowed eyes, your companion glances back at the smudge. A brooding shadow clouds his gaze as he verifies your findings through his own memories. "You think it means something?"
You shrug. "Coincidences don't really happen in our line of work."
Dean nods. "Right. Well, we'll do a quick run to the rest of the houses, and I'll call up Bobby to see if he can put a name to this thing we're hunting."
You return his affirmation and look back to the couple in the other room. While Dean takes out his cellphone, you start towards them with a mouthful of well-versed lies.
XX
"We're looking for something called a Sluagh."
You blink as you hear the awkward sound slide from Dean's lips. You half wonder if the man had bit his tongue. "A what?"
"A Sluagh." His mouth folds uncomfortable around the word. "It's celtic lore."
You sink into the edge of your bed and let go of the news clippings onto the bedsheets. You look up at Dean waiting for him to continue as he drops onto his own bed.
"According to Bobby, these things are essentially evil souls that escaped damnation, and they go after people with a similar darkness. They possess them and influence them to do more evil things."
You angle your head to the side as Dean takes a swig from his canteen. "What you're describing sounds like a regular demon."
Dean shakes his head and glances towards the ceiling. "S' what I thought, but Bobby explained that these things never made it to hell to turn into demons. They're just masses of bad souls, and they're not as strong in their possessions. So unless you're already pretty impressionable to negative thoughts, they can't really influence you. …At first anyways. Which is why they gravitate towards people who can't get over the bad shit in their lives."
You nod readily. "I told you those things counted." You pause. "What do you mean 'at first?'"
Dean ignores your first comment. "I'll get to that. So these things usually hang somewhere close to town until they've had their fill of dark souls before moving on to their next buffet."
You sit up in alarm. "They've taken twelve people already. How do we know they haven't already left?"
Dean holds up a hand to stop you. "The more people they feed on, the stronger they get, and soon they start to have an effect on the entire area. The Sluagh haven't been heard of for a long time, but when they were recorded, they're said to have wiped out whole towns."
You force yourself to relax, kneading your fingers to cope with the strain. "So how do we kill it?"
There's an uncertain look on the hunter's face. "Apparently, all we need is some holly. We burn the holly around it, and poof. Ganked."
You raise a brow. "Right. How are we supposed to trap it in a circle of burning holly? I doubt it's just gonna wait around for us to set it up."
A sly glint flashes in Dean's eye. "Well, when the time comes, I'm sure the superior hunter will figure it out."
You press your mouth into a hard line, the edges barely lifting upwards. You'll be damned if you let the man get the better of you.
XX
It's late in the evening. You and Dean are currently sitting in the car across the street from a bungalow house with a white picket fence.
It had taken nearly an entire morning to figure out how you were going to single out the Sluagh's next victims. Without any sort of lead, Dean decided to visit city hall to find a record of the town's inhabitants. Luckily, the town only had a population of slightly over three thousand. You then emailed the record to your friend who tapered the list down to the most likely candidates. You were able to discover a few more cases of mild mental illnesses, domestic situations, and substance abuse. Acting on a hunch, you took off your bracelet and raked the town, trying to observe each of the potential victims. Taping into your Wikkōn senses, you noticed the energy signature of each person. While you picked out the individuals with the darkest flecks in their aura, Dean was making a shopping run with your credit card. With the number of suspects given by you, he went to the local electronic store and bought a box load of security cameras. Dressing up as an electrician, he went around town setting up the cameras near the houses of people most likely to be the Sluagh's next meal. By the time all the preparations were finished, it was well into the night.
"Okay. Would you rather give up booze for a year or give up sex for a month?" Dean asks as he tosses another french fry into his mouth.
You inhale tiredly through your nose and continue to watch the uneventful security recordings on your laptop. "Sex for a month."
Dean jerks towards you with a surprised expression. "Really?"
You shrug. "It's hardly any different from what I've got going on now." You feel a pang of irritation as you feel the man's incredulous stare.
"Christ. When was the last time you got any?"
You sigh, thinking back to all the things that have happened since meeting the Winchesters. "Before all of this. Before meeting you and Sam. So, three months? Give or take."
"Three months!" Dean shakes his head. The man pauses, making a face. He turns to you with a studying look.
"What?" You ask, your eyes never leaving the screen.
"You got a boyfriend back home waiting for you or something?"
You're startled by the question and tear your gaze away from the laptop from the first time. "No, I've never been able to connect with anyone on that level. It's near impossible to keep a working relationship with our profession."
Dean's eyes drop to the screen, his nose crinkling a bit. "That's true, I guess."
You scrutinize the man, finding more to the expression he's projecting. "Do you?"
Dean's eyes glaze over with thought. "It's complicated."
You angle yourself towards the hunter, your mind peaking with interest. This is the first you've ever heard of a love interest for Dean, seeing the way he moved from girl to girl through all your travels. You know Sam had a late girlfriend he treasured, but you never took Dean as a settling down kind of guy. "Do you miss her? Do you call or visit her? What's her name?"
He makes an impatient noise in his throat. "Why do you wanna know?"
You almost throw your hands up. "Come on! I'm curious. You've been prodding me with questions all day. It's about time I get my turn."
His mouth twists, oscillating from his reluctance to talk about the subject to wanting to project an air of indifference. Finally, he blows an air of surrender. "Her name is Lisa. And yeah, I miss her. I've visited her once. But that was because of a case. Haven't seen or talked to her since."
You ease your head against the back rest. "So you think, maybe when all this is over, you're gonna go back and start a life with her?"
Dean frowns, a weariness settling into his form. "I don't know. She has a kid she's gotta take care of, and I'm a hunter. Even if we win this, with what I do, I'll only put her in danger. Besides, her priority will always be to keep her son safe, and I don't wanna jeopardize that. The kid's too great for me to mess him up. I figure it's just better if I stay away in the end."
Your excitement drains away, and your voice dies in your throat. Dean's situation draws a staggering parallel to your own. His reasons for staying his distance are sound, and the more logical part of you insists that you should follow in his footsteps. Yet, despite all rationale, you don't want to give up. You hear Lyss's warning in your ears again, and you shake your head, swallowing hard. "But what if there was a way to keep them safe? Would you pursue her then?"
Dean gives you a strange look, finding the ardor in your voice odd. "How would that be possible?"
You fidget with the hem of your jacket, your fingers clenching around the folded fabric. "Hypothetically, I mean. If it was possible."
He forces a smile. "Yeah, hypothetically. If clouds were made of cotton candy and there were pots of gold at the end of rainbows, of course I'd go back to her. But what's the point on wasting time on 'could be's and 'what if's when you know it's just a fantasy?"
You grit your teeth. Though Dean is unaware of your own troubles, hearing him denounce the possibility is a harrowing blow to your confidence. You tear your gaze away and look down. Are you being delusional after all? You can feel the obstinacy rising within you.
"I…" But your retort is cut short when a chill runs down your spine.
Gripping onto your bracelet, your head veers towards the house. You catch the glare of your eyes sparking gold in the rearview mirror.
Dean starts from your sudden movements. "What is it?" He glances from the house to the laptop screen.
To the west, you see a growing unrest among the wildlife. Looming just beyond the turn of the road, birds and rodents scuttle from their hiding places. Their fear adds to the mounting unease in the atmosphere. You narrow your eyes. A dark haze floats closer, and you inch towards the back window. At first, you catch a flick of something black. Then, all at once, dark wisps of smoke slither into view. They twist and slice through the air, causing the surrounding plant life to quiver with discomfort.
"What is it? What do you see?" Dean repeats anxiously.
Your shoulders tense. "It's here. It's coming."
Dean turns his head back and forth, searching for the black tendrils you're staring at. You remain silently alert, your eyes never leaving their target. It's now obvious to you that Dean can't see whatever it is that you do, which doesn't bode well for the hunter.
The black miasma ebb over the picket fence towards the house. Your lips twitch with grim satisfaction. The wispy black crawl around the house, searching for an opening. Coiling towards the west side, it finds what it's looking for.
"It's in the house." You tell Dean.
The man nods, his hands tightening over the wheel.
Only a few moments later, the front door swings open and out walks a man in his early 40s. He wears a simple white shirt and jeans, topped with an open vest. His expression is ominous as he struts down the porch stairs. You recall the information in his file.
The man's name is Carl Peyton. He was a victim of domestic abuse when he was a child. After going through various foster homes and later halfway houses, he developed a penchant for a laundry list of unsavory habits. Though there were moments where he seemed sincere in his struggle to better his life, he lacked the environmental support, and would always spiral back to his old malefactions.
Your jaw clamps when you see the dark miasma curl around his body like a cobra. With each step he takes, his life energy muddies. You and Dean freeze when the man stops at his gate. He pauses, and you wonder if the man can see you. The moment passes, and Carl makes his way to the grey truck parked on the road.
You and Dean breathe again.
The door to the truck slams, and vehicle's metal frame shudders when the engine roars to life. The two of you duck when his truck passes the Impala. Once the man is a good few yards away, Dean starts the car and pulls onto the road after him. The Impala maintains a good fifty yards behind as you continue following the grey vehicle. Given these are the only two cars running in this town, you half expect that the truck to stop at any moment, and you'll have to confront the man before you can find the Sluagh's hideout. But as time ticks on, the chances of that happening dwindles, and you start to relax. Soon, the road takes you away from town all together, and all you see are dark stretches of rolling hills.
"Dean." You say, breaking the silence. "How are you planning on fighting that thing if you can't see it?"
A brief moment of silence elapses before he speaks.
"Not sure, but I'll figure it out. For now, as long as it needs to control a body, I'll have a target."
"We're heading into unknown territory, and with no previous experience hunting this thing. Bet or not, we should stick together."
Dean nods. No matter how egotistical either of you may be about your fighting capabilities, it's a fool's move to underestimate an unknown enemy.
After nearly thirty minutes of driving, you feel another chill. You throw your gaze further ahead, catching sight of a dark forest. Under the moonlight, your eyes glimpse a whirling cloud of charcoal black, floating like a sinister halo over the trees. You sense the forest's plight, the trees and flora wailing soundlessly in distress.
"Their hiding place is right up ahead. In that forest." You say and point towards the dark cloud you know Dean can't see.
"Right."
Dean jerks the steering wheel to the right. The Impala pulls off road until it stops among a growing mixture of shrubbery and wild grass. As he kills the engine, you open the car door and step outside. Your feel the dirt and gravel beneath your soles. You slam the door shut and circle around to the back of the car. Dean steps next to you and unlocks the trunk door. You turn on the flashlight and point it inside, you had grabbed it from the glove compartment for his sake. With the visual clarity the Wikkōn body gives you, it's just another advantage you have over the hunter. The light bounces off the different metallics in the trunk, making you and Dean turn your heads from the glare. You quickly adjust the flashlight's angle and set it in a practical corner. Under the luminosity, the grand assortment of weapons and digging tools shine within their storage. Each object is neatly arranged into its own spot, tied down with buckles and straps. The only thing that doesn't have its own prescribed place is a box with the various purchases Dean made today.
You smile when you see that all the items you wanted have been successfully procured. You reach into the box for the leather rope woven with interlocking chains and tipped with a metal hook. You bring out the shoulder bag tucked in the corner of the trunk and you place your weapon in. Your eyes move onto the jars filled with a mélange of crushed holly and oil. There are six jars in total, and you know Dean must have emptied whatever store he visited of all the Aquifoliaceae plant. You only hope these jars will be enough. Taking three for yourself, you place the rest in Dean's duffle.
Once the hunter finishes counting his magazines, he picks out a few handcuffs pinned to the underside of the trunk's lid. He then pulls out his .45 caliber from its slot and stuffs it into the belt at his back. His eyes pass over the Beretta, hesitating, before he adds the gun to his bag.
You scrutinize his firearms. "You're not thinking of shooting those people, are you? They're just possessed."
Dean slams the trunk down. "I'll only use 'em as a last resort. And don't worry. There are plenty of places on the human body you can aim at without killing them, and I'm an excellent shot." There's a prideful grin on his face.
You roll your eyes, then focus your attention towards the forest. "If this is where the Sluagh have been taking their victims…"
Dean slings his bag his shoulder. "Then most likely, there'll be some other poor possessed saps running around in there."
The two of you start towards the forest edge. The crunching of gravel under your feet is all you can hear for miles.
"Last I counted, there are twelve disappearances from the town. Those should be all the human obstacles we'd expect… if the Sluagh hasn't kept any leftovers from other towns they've passed." You say.
"And if any of them are still alive. Either way. There should be plenty for each of us."
His reply makes you grin. Frankly, you're glad Dean hasn't lost his chipper mood. Hunting isn't exactly a fun activity for you even with the occasional adrenaline rush. However, with Dean, who seems to invest himself into the hunt with such reckless abandon, you can't help but feel the excitement rub off on you.
Once you arrive at the forest's edge, you see the grey truck abandoned off to the far left of the road. The driver door sits wide open with the keys still in the ignition.
You brush your fingers along the leaves of a fledgling tree, feeling its pain. The branches bristle, arching towards you, aching for your caress. You lift your head in the direction of the malevolent energy, exchanging cautious glances with Dean before stepping into the thickets.
Treading your way through the forest, you are painfully aware of the unnatural silence. Since the arrival of the Sluagh, you suppose any animal or creature that could run have long escaped. The atmosphere emitted by the creature is difficult to bear, brewing within you a sense of nausea and desolation. Your Wikkōn powers instinctively put up a defensive wall, keeping the dark energy from draining you. The only downside to the defense is the way the plant life would reach for you every time you make contact. You know if it was Lyss in control, she would have a way to manage them. However, it is only a matter of time before you acquire her skills.
When you begin to see a clearing up ahead, you hold up a hand to signal Dean. Slowly, you inch forward until you're able to make out what stands in the open glade. There are still quite a few yards between your position to the danger that lies ahead. You've taken particular attention to keeping a safe distance. You motion for Dean to hide, and he promptly slides behind a tree trunk with thick bush bristles fanning its base. You narrow your eyes, pressing yourself closer to your own tree trunk and ignoring its charged thrill at your touch.
Up ahead, you catch sight of a giant swarming orb of black smoke. Surrounding it are numerous individuals who you suspect are the missing townsmen. They all face towards the swarm, standing eerily still. It takes you another second before you realize each person has their heads tilted upwards, mouths open.
Tendrils from the swarm flex and protrude outwards. The black ribbons swerve down towards the victims and reach into their mouths. Your eyes widen when you see grey threads of energy drawn out, flowing from their mouths and towards the giant dark mass.
"Why are they all standing around like that?" Dean whispers.
"It's feeding on them, drawing out their life energy." Your fingers dig into the bark.
"There's something in the center, isn't there?"
You turn a surprised glance to the hunter. "You can see it?"
Dean squints his eyes. "Not sure. It just looks hazy. Like a dark fog. And it feels weird, uncomfortable."
You switch back to the clearing. Dean's senses are sharper than you thought. You suppose it's much harder to go undetected when the Sluagh horde together in such massive quantities. Perhaps this is the reason why it hides in remote locations rather than in the actual towns.
"I think I count twelve. It's dark, so I'm not sure. You ready?"
You nod, sliding the rope from your shoulder to your hand. The both of you step out from your hiding places. Walking brazenly through the trees, it isn't long before you catch the attention of the swarm.
The black mass writhes, and you hear an earsplitting screech. Dean cringes beside you.
As if rehearsed, every possessed person turns their heads in your direction, their faces let out a menacing hiss. Their bodies move as one, and they pivot, charging headlong towards you. Their eyes are unfocused. Each individual runs with rampant speed, their arms swinging wildly. The Sluagh puppeteering these people hold no regards for their physical limitations. Most likely, these possessed bodies are being moved past the brink of what is humanely capable. If you don't get rid of it soon, even if these people are saved, they will likely be facing the rest of their lives as cripples.
You jump back to a more accessible spot. The adrenaline pumps through your veins, and your muscles flex in preparation. You glance at Dean, preparing to run.
"Remember, whoever exorcizes the most people wins!" You shout out.
"And the first person who can gank that fog gets additional points! That thing's worth at least five people!"
"Deal!" The moment the words leave your mouth, you and Dean break off running in opposite directions. You jerk your head towards him. So much for sticking together. You're about to call out after him, but a crowd of the Sluagh puppets are quickly gaining on you. You bite your tongue and double your speed, telling yourself the hunter will be fine.
You continue to fly through the forest, careful with your footing. You're more than fast enough to out run them, and with the terrain, it'll be easy to lose and separate your attackers. Through the pursuit, you keep a sharp eye on your stalkers. You make sure to run in a straight line, worried that if you make any complicated turns, you may lose them all together. Then, you won't be able to predict where they'll be.
When you're certain the crowd can no longer see you, you leap into the trees. You make for the higher branches to fully hide yourself within the leaves. You fumble around the branches until you're finally satisfied with the coverage and the view of the ground.
A few yards away, the sound of running footsteps come closer. You soften your breathing and wait for the four to five possessed bodies to catch up. When you see them, the attackers have slowed down to hesitant shuffles. Having lost your trail, they roam in circles near the base of your tree.
You slowly raise your right hand, rolling a pebble into your fingers. Before your climb, you had picked up a few rocks on your run. They sit in a bundle in your left fist, and you send the first pebble through the air.
The moment the rock makes a sound, the puppets jerk upright, like bloodhounds picking up a scent.
You don't wait for them amass for the same trajectory and start whipping pebbles in different directions.
True to expectations, each sound baits the possessed person closest to them. The group breaks apart, each moving towards the disturbance they think is you. You continue to shoot more pebbles until you're satisfied you've spread them far enough from one another.
You land softly on the dirt ground. Looking around, you decide which person you want to go after first. Listening to prudence, you choose to make after the weakest one. Your footsteps are near silent as you race after your first prey. It isn't long before you find her. A woman in her late 30s in an ankle length dress. You remember in her file that she had become heavily religious after time in juvie as an adolescent. The greenish brown dress snags on bushes and branches as she walks, limiting her movements.
With a quick motion, you whip your arm forward, the momentum brings the leather rope searing through the air. The rope catches the woman's legs, twirling around it several times before the hook latches onto a chain link. Yanking the rope from behind, the woman falls flat. Before she can claw at the binds, you're already twisting the rope over a sturdy branch. When you jerk the rope once more, the woman is pulled from her feet and dangles just inches above the ground. Her body swings back and forth, her lips pull back into a growl. Her fingers mimic talons as they thrash at you. You stare down at her pitiful form and shake your head. The Sluagh is reducing them to no more than animals.
Not willing to waste another second, you tie your end of the rope to another branch and secure the trap. You then dig out a jar from your bag and unscrew the cap. Pouring the substance out in a circle around the woman, you're careful not to waste your supply. After putting the jar back, you take out a match box and knock it against your palm until a matchstick falls out. You scrape the powdered bulb of the stick against the side of the box, and a small flame erupts from the rounded tip. Before the fire can devour the remainder of the wood, you toss it onto the holly oil. The ring ignites. No sooner have the flames completed the circle, the woman screams. Her body convulses, and she begins to gag. Black smog oozes from her mouth. When it dissipates, the woman faints, and the fire dies. Your eyes examine her aura, having returned more or less to the normal human color tones. Untying the leather rope, you release her before climbing back into the trees.
Within seconds, more of the Sluagh's puppets approach, drawn in from the woman's scream. It's two men this time. As they near the unconscious woman, they loom over her to inspect her body. You ready your body. The men are distracted. Taking the opportunity, you leap down and whip out the rope chain again. Your bind wraps around their arms and torsos in swift coils, pulling them together. They try to untangle themselves, but your strength is ample enough in keeping their restraints secure. You spring upwards, winding the rope over the same branch, then another, in case the doubled weight is too much. You pull with all your might and manage to heave the men roughly two inches off the ground. Not a great feat, but it would suffice for what you plan to do.
After fastening the rope to the growth in the bark, you grab the unconscious woman by her arms and pull her away from under the two men. The woman's back and legs rake against the ground, bundling leaves and twigs. The captives growl viciously as you work around them. Irritated by the noise, you take out a small blade from your bag and rip off a few inches of the woman's dress. You mutter a silent apology for destroying her clothes, but you make sure to leave more than enough for her decency. A part of you thinks the rip might be an improvement. The pattern on outdated dress is horrid.
With a strong grip on both ends, you tear the fabric in two. The material makes a swift zipping sound as the seams are yanked apart. You strut up to the men, balling the fabric together and proceed to stuff their mouths. You hope to at least muffle their cries when you start burning the holly. You reach for the jars of oil, hastily spilling the contents in a sloppy circle. As their angry grunts grate your nerves, you wonder if you've wasted too much time, and if Dean has already caught more enemies than you. You slash the match stick against its box, promptly throwing it to the circle. To your relief, the balls of cloth did significantly reduce their screams. Their muffled cries are barely discernable as the dark energy is wrenched from them.
Once you release the two now unconscious men, you pat them down for any cellphones. You exhale when you find one in the younger man's pockets. It still has plenty of battery life. They'll be able to call for help when they wake. Straightening, you gather your rope chain from the branches. Once you've wound the length back into a loop, you walk off after the rest of the Sluagh's puppets.
You continue your methods of distraction, bait and attack until you can no longer track any enemies in your vicinity.
You crouch down next to the young man and woman. Their bodies and clothes are slightly more beaten due to the punches you've given them. These two had been agile given their youth and stature, making them more difficult to handle. You suspect their wild thrashing and abnormal strength would have caused more than a few tears in their muscles. Your teeth clench at their tattered forms. These people are innocent, and because of the Sluagh, they'll be suffering not only from psychological damages but of physical ones too. Your brows pinch, and you wish you had brought your spell book with you. Then you could have performed minor healing spells that might alleviate some of the injuries they sustained.
Sighing with regret, you decide to search their bodies for a cellphone. When you can't find one, you rummage through your bag and take out a burner cell, tucking it into the woman's jacket. You stand back up, slightly hesitant with leaving the unconscious boy and girl. But you know you must. You force your attention elsewhere and scan the surroundings for signs of your friend. When you can't find anything, you decide to make your way back to the clearing where the feeling of dread is the strongest. Perhaps you'll be able track Dean on the way.
You think you walked for about ten minutes before you hear the sound of a gunshot to your 10 o'clock. You take off sprinting in the direction of its echo. The trees and bushes blur past you, and you're careful with your steps. The forest floor is filled with cavities and roots that can send you flying face first into the ground.
Another shot rings out, and you know you're close.
"Dean!" You call out.
Up ahead, you think you see two figures, one standing more awkwardly than the other. You slow down when you're only a few feet away.
The hunter stands furthest from you, currently locked in a stalemate with his opponent. The man he's facing is closest to you, but his back is turned. All you can see is the man's dirty blond hair, his beige woolen jacket and dark pants. His stance is weary, and your eyes trail to the gash at his calf. Even in the dark, you can make out the exit wound from Dean's bullet. The dark fabric from the pant leg glistens with the shine of blood.
Another few meters away lies a man with his hands cuffed to a branch. His foot seems to be placed in an odd angle, and you suppose his injury is from the first shot you heard. Despite the one leg trembling with pain, the man has devoted his focus to yanking his bound wrists against the branch, repeatedly. His expression seems to hold no sense of suffering even as the metal braces scrape against his skin. Blood leaks from the lacerations, drawing red lines down his forearms and staining the blue sleeves of his button shirt. You can't help but think the ones who went after you were much more fortunate. They didn't have to wake up to bleeding bullet wounds and broken limbs.
Dean looks up and gives you a haggard grin. You take a step forward, but the hunter holds up a hand.
"Oh no, you don't. They're mine."
You cross your arms and shoot him a look, but otherwise remain where you are. You watch as Dean saunters towards the injured man with another handcuff in his fist.
The man lurches towards the hunter, which Dean easily sidesteps. Lifting a leg back, Dean delivers a swift kick to the man's good leg, knocking him off balance. As the possessed man tries to take another swing at Dean, the hunter grabs the oncoming hand and cuffs the wrist. Pulling it downwards, Dean twists the man over on his chest and attaches the other cuff to his injured leg. The man is rendered immobile and flops around haplessly.
You have to admit, Dean works quickly and efficiently. But when he glances over to you with a cocky smirk, you withhold your earlier expression of approval.
A final cry echoes through the forest when the last man is exorcized, and you turn your attention to the thickets for any signs of approaching danger. The trees and bushes retain their stark silence, with only a slight breeze offering a faint rustle. When you sense nothing, you turn your eyes back on Dean. The hunter is surveying the dark woods with equal scrutiny. He leans back with relaxed shoulders when he deems it's safe enough.
"So what's your score?" Dean asks, breaking the silence.
You watch his expression, a mixture of hesitation and self-assurance. You inwardly smile. Whatever his number may be, you know you've already won this round. "What's yours?" You ask instead.
Dean scoffs, but replies anyway. "Five."
Your smile widens. "Seven." With this, you're relieved to know all the possessed humans have been taken care of.
Dean's eyes grow wide with surprise. He turns away with a curse under his breath. "You didn't use your witchy powers, did you? 'Cause that's cheating."
You uncross your arms and place a hand at your hip. "Knew you would say that." Your lips pull into a satisfied grin and show him the bracelet on your wrist. "Can't use my powers with this thing on." You chuckle when you see the sour look on his face. "And would you look at that, I didn't even have to use a gun."
Dean glares at you, but the battle ready look of defiance soon returns to his visage. "Don't count your eggs just yet. We still got that fog we gotta beat."
You snort at his persistence, but after re-evaluating his words, your sense of gravity returns. "We should hurry before it decides to take control of them again."
"Lead the way." He gestures with his hand.
…
You look through the foliage to the sky as you and Dean race towards the clearing. You think it's around two in the morning, which means you've been fighting in the woods for about five hours. The man beside you starts to slow, bringing your focus back. The two of you stop a few feet from the open glade, spying the final opponent from just beyond the shadows.
The clearing remains the same, and at its center is the Sluagh. The momentous dark body hovers meters above ground. Underneath, what was originally grass has now died, shriveled brown and dry from the sheer malevolence of the creature.
"It never moved." Dean squints his eyes. "Can you see anything near it?"
You search the area at Dean's suggestion and find nothing but the swirling charcoal mass. "No."
"Alright then." He grips the jars of holly in his hand. "What're we waiting for? Let's finish this."
You follow his footsteps into the clearing, feeling more tentative. Your instincts prick with tension. Your mind jumps from possibility to possibility of the surprises that might await you. Studying the hunter in front of you, you see a similar rigidity in his shoulders. You're glad the man is equally on edge. Of all his bravado, Dean is still mindful to the unforeseen dangers.
You step out from the cover of the trees, and the moonlight casts its glow over you.
The Sluagh ripples, appearing to seethe at your arrival. It bellows out a rumbling screech.
Dean shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "Got no one left to control now, do ya?"
The black mass wails out its retort.
The hair on the back of your neck stands on end.
"Dean." You warn as alarm shoots through you. Something is wrong. Something is about to happen.
"You ain't gonna be able to feed on any more people. So let's dance, you stinkin' ball of fog."
Dean either didn't hear your warning or is purposely ignoring you. The man takes out two jars of the holly oil, caps unscrewed.
The Sluagh seems to inflate with rage, recognizing the weapon Dean is holding. With another bellow, the smog lunges out. Thick plumes of black smoke charge forward.
"Bring it on!" Dean roars as he pushes off against his foe.
"Dean, no!" You hold out a hand to stop him but you're a second too late.
As the dark tendrils approach, Dean splashes the oil forward, causing the plumes to shrink back. However, just as the hunter believes he has taken advantage, the other tendrils snake around and attack from behind.
"Dean! Watch out!"
Though the warning is yours, the voice coming from your mouth is not. As you watch the hunter grapple with the smoke, your arm moves to rip off the bracelet without your control. Your attention is caught between the involuntary actions your body, and the failing struggles of your friend. The moment the bracelet is off, you find your awareness take a backseat. A new sensation billows through you, flooding outwards from the release of its restraints. Although you're clearly conscious of what is happening around you, you find your senses caged, as if watching the situation unfold from a closed off window. Your eyes track the hunter. The dark strings close around his limbs and neck, breathing darkness into him all the while pure white energy is sucked from his mouth.
"Dean!" The voice that is not yours echo your cry again.
"INTITEM!"
Surprise shakes you at the incantation spilling from your mouth. A wave of power expels from you, flowing towards the hunter and the Sluagh. Instead of the habitual cut the spell commands, the black tendrils holding Dean is blown apart. The Sluagh recoils, spitting out a shrieking groan. Although, the blast frees your friend, the man is thrown savagely from the attack. He lets out a grunt as his back collides with the ground, skidding a few feet further. Dean's head knocks back, and he no longer moves. Only the slight rises and falls of his chest tell you that he's only unconscious and not dead.
Anger burns through you, anger at the entity who controls your body, anger at Lyss, and anger at yourself for letting her use you like so. You grab hold of the reigns in your mind, inserting yourself back to the forefront of your awareness. You feel Lyss draw back, draw within you, almost eager to grant you control.
You turn back to the agitated black fog.
"Kheim Difere!" You call out.
Another torrent of energy explodes from you, but this time with you riding at its helm, leashing the power with stringent discipline. The jars within your bag and the two Dean previously held rise into the air and zip around the Sluagh. With a turn of your wrist, the glass containers shatter, its contents spilling outwards around the dark mass in a perfect circle. The smoke roars in outrage, squirming and distorting within its containment.
"Arfervi!"
The spell brings out a tremendous spark, shattering cinders in every which way. The circle of holly oil bursts into flame, forming a substantial ring of fire. The Sluagh wails, and the sound is suddenly a chorus of a hundred tormented voices. You grimace from their cries. The black ball of smoke tries to curl upwards, darting around the space in an effort to escape. However, as if walled in by an invisible dome, the fog can no more rise a few meters before it is blocked once again. The black mass contorts, twisting and thrashing. After another wail, a wave of energy gushes from its body and the Sluagh fragment. As the fire grows, you start to see the creature for what it really is. A hundred tortured and lost souls mixed and tangled within one another, screaming out in delirium and pain. You feel your heart clench. You're not sure if it is your own emotions or those of Lyss, but you wish you could save them. You wish you could ease their anguish without erasing their existence. The fire continues to burn them away, incinerating their souls and etching their screams into your mind. You know you can't.
You raise your arm, and the flames rise along with it. Bringing out your hand, you curl your fingers into a fist. The inferno swallows the Slaugh within its enclosure, and the entire body is sent aflame. The burning smoke collapses into itself, howling the entire way until nothing but a cinder remains. Fading away with the smoke, a lingering cry drifts through the wind. Then all is silent.
The fight is over, but you feel desolate, staring at the empty space the Sluagh occupied.
You shouldn't fret.
You remain reticent as Lyss's words float through your mind.
Souls never really die. Though the self is terminated, their essence will be absorbed back into the world. They will be cleansed, refreshed until they are ready to be born again in new forms.
Despite her words, and the truth that ring from them, your mood isn't much improved. You can still feel the anguish of the Sluagh throbbing through your memories.
A hand presses against your shoulder, and you snap out of your thoughts. You glance up to find Dean standing next to you. You didn't even notice his regaining consciousness or his approach.
"You all right?"
You stare back at him with wide eyes. The man was nearly choked to death by the Sluagh, then blown away twenty yards, and he's asking if you are okay?
"Yes, but, are you?"
He takes his hand away rubs his throat where the Sluagh had strangled him. He gives an uneasy laugh. "Yeah." Turning to scan the clearing again, he blows a sigh. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
You give a weak smile, still somewhat shaken by the experience.
He steals a glance at you from the corner of his eye. Puffing his chest, he drives his hand into your back with a loud smack. You stumble forward and stare back at Dean in surprise. There's a giant grin plastered on his face.
"You did a good job, but didn't we agree using your powers is cheating?"
You blink, your face morphing into an expression of mild irritation. You straighten your back and cross your arms. "Even if I didn't count the Sluagh, I still win."
Dean snorts, but when he sees the usual glint in your eyes again, he turns away with a softened smile. "Yeah, yeah." He walks over to where he dropped his bag and bends over to pick up the strap. Though he hides it well, you notice the strained movements as he pulls the strap over his shoulders. "I still say you got lucky this time. If it were vampires or werewolves or any of the usual stuff we deal with, I'd have won for sure!"
You decide to humor him and hide your looks of concern. Waving your hand, you pretend to dismiss his complaints. "Anytime, anywhere, Dean."
The hunter mimics your voice under his breath as he digs around his duffle for his burner cell. Flipping open his phone, he presses four buttons before bringing it to his ear.
A woman responds from the other end.
"Yeah, I'd like to request ambulances for twelve people."
XXX
After getting back from the forest, you told Dean you wanted to leave as soon as possible. You could tell the man was tired and wanted to sleep, but he didn't object. In return, you offered to drive until you reach the next destination.
The sky is already brightening, and you have to pull down the sun visor to block the glaring light. The hunter does the same, sending an annoyed glower at the rising sun. He's no doubt miffed that the brightness is making it hard for him to sleep.
You think back to your earlier conversation. You never did give him your answer.
"It's really similar…." You say as you stare down the road.
Dean glances at you from the passenger seat. "What?"
"What you told me about Lisa and you. I think I'm in a similar situation."
Dean blinks, surprised at the sudden revival of the topic. "I thought you said you don't have anyone waiting for you."
You shake your head. "Not a boyfriend. And I don't think he's waiting for me." You sigh, feeling pessimistic from the subject, but still yearning for Dean to offer you some sort of advice. "I thought I could do it, to have some semblance of a normal life and still do my job. Falling in love and having friends. But now I'm not so sure."
Dean silently contemplates your words, and you're glad he's not teasing you. "What do you mean when you say it's similar?"
You chew your lip. "The obligations. I'm constantly reminded that we have different obligations."
Dean watches you carefully. "What are his obligations."
You pause, unsure of how to answer without giving too much away. "His family, I suppose."
The man turns his head, and you think you see a shadow of a smirk, but you're not sure. "And you have your hunter Wikkōn thing, huh."
You nod.
"So what do you plan to do?"
You glance at your friend; to which he returns with an encouraging look. "I'm not sure." And frankly, you're starting to feel rather guilty about the entire affair. "I was hoping you could give me some advice."
Surprise colors his features. Dean seems honored by your show of trust in him. He turns a brooding complexion to the road. "Does the guy know how you feel?"
You think back to the night on the roof. "I'm not sure."
"Why don't you tell him?"
You bristle, your face is almost akin to horror at the man's suggestion. You focus your eyes back to the road when you see Dean isn't joking. "Wouldn't that be selfish? To impose my feelings on him like that? He's got more than enough on his plate as is."
"Hey. No guy is ever offended to hear when a cute girl likes them."
His compliment makes you blush.
"Besides! You deserve to be a little selfish! With you staking your life to save the world and all." His mouth pulls into a sly grin. "And if he dares turn you down. I'll be sure to knock some sense into him."
You let out a laugh, finding your mood lightening. "Thanks, Dean." You breathe out another chuckle when you imagine Dean tossing Cass around in a fit of righteous fury.
"So what's his name?"
The laugh is caught in your throat. You peer over to the hunter, and you don't like the knowing smirk on his face. You fake a serene smile. "Don't think asking me this is going to make me forget about you losing our bet. You still gotta call Sam."
Dean's face immediately turns bitter. "Dammit."
Went back to reread this chapter and can't believe I missed so many obvious mistakes. Spelling errors... you are the bane of my existence! Why can't everything be perfect after the first reread. ~cries pitifully~
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! Your feedback are the fuel for these stories. =D
