Author's note: Am I allowed to say I love this chapter even though I wrote it? Because pissed off protective Dean- my favourite, oh no, hang on- pissed off, protective, injured Dean, even better! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it- J

Chapter 10 Finding Evil

Dean felt the pain explode down his right side as the Impala hit, then his left as he impacted with the hard tarmac of the lot, and then he was rolling, instinct taking over as he followed his momentum. The world was spinning; the air forced from his lungs, his injured wrist knotted in the sling as he tried to release it, tried to brace himself against the hard ground. Violence and motion ruled his world for less than a second but it felt like so much longer as he fought against it. No, he couldn't do this. Sammy wouldn't. . .

He let out a slight cough before drawing in deep heavy breaths to give oxygen to an adrenaline heightened system, curling around his throbbing wrist, his hip beating a counterpoint of pain. His eyes squeezed closed as though that would protect him, somehow shield him. He just needed a minute to. . .

No! Dammit! He didn't have time for this. The pain and the pity could wait for later because even if he was the one lying face down in the tarmac it was Sam who was in trouble. He rolled himself over and pushed up. His eyes scanning towards the exit, just in time to see the tail lights of the Impala one last time as Sam braked for the corner at the bottom of the block.

Left he went left, Dean repeated to himself as he turned and headed for their room. He ignored his injuries as best he could but he was still limping heavily as he hustled forwards. He cursed as his hands shook when he tried to get the key in the lock, forcing himself to take a deep breath so he could steady his hand enough for the simple task. Frustration tried to take hold, but, like all of the other negative emotions trying to drag his mind down so that he couldn't function, he pushed it back into the fuzzy area of his mind where it could fester, come back to haunt him later when he had time for it, when it could control his nightmares or drown itself in too many beers with whisky chasers. When he could spectacularly let it take over for a little while in his own broken way of dealing, but for now it was something he wouldn't allow, couldn't afford, his entire mind focussed on the one thing he had to do, save Sammy.

The key finally slid into the lock and he pushed quickly into the room ripping the sling off as he grabbed his gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Next he grabbed the weapons bag, dumping the contents unceremoniously onto the bed. He picked out the few things he thought he could use and hefted it over his shoulder.

Car, he needed a car. He scanned the area quickly, looking for something that wouldn't be reported as missing for a few hours. He settled on the employee section of the lot behind the motel; an old grey Ford Crown Victoria with an open window and 'steal me' practically tattooed on the side took him out onto the road.

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Dean didn't have time for subtle, even if he'd felt like it, so his entrance to Tiffany's apartment involved a short appraisal and then a well aimed kick that took out the lock and splintered the frame. He was in before the door had stopped swinging, his gun held out in front of him as he swept the room.

The startled cry drew his aim as Tiffany stood and turned to look at him, eyes wide with shock. "What the Hell.? ."

"Where is he?" Dean interrupted; the cold rage an almost visible emotion swirling round him. His eyes continued to sweep around the room but his gun never wavered from where it was pointed at her head. He stepped closer to her, menacing, angry. "I want to know where he is?"

"Where who is?" Tiffany asked her expression registering confusion and fear. "I. . . I. . don't know what you're. . ."

Dean transferred the gun to his injured hand allowing it to drop down to his side as he grabbed the front of Tiffany's shirt and pushed her back against the wall. "I won't ask you again, where is my brother?"

Tears welled in Tiffany's eyes and she fought to hold them back, to control the fear. This was not the same man who had spoken to her about Matt only the day before He had the same face, but that man had been handsome and charming and fun, now there was only cold, violence and fury.

She knew that she needed to convince him that she had no idea what he was talking about. Her eyes scanned his face frantically. If she couldn't do that then she was sure he was going to hurt her. "I didn't know you even had a brother," she stated quickly, almost tripping over her words in her effort to get them out. "Please I only met you that one time, the other day, Matt never talked about you; I don't know. . .I didn't know. . .please you have to believe me I. . ."

Dean had been holding her, watching her, his eyes boring right through hers and into what lay behind. He wanted to believe that she was responsible because it was the only lead he had and if it wasn't her then he couldn't find Sam and he needed to find Sam before. . but he knew it wasn't her, knew that she wasn't lying to him, every instinct was screaming at him to listen to them because otherwise he might do something that he would regret. He stepped back, his certainty melting a little. It wasn't her. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. It wasn't her. He pressed his hand against his forehead, pushing back against the sudden pressure there. Then he was moving, through the apartment, checking every closet every cupboard every room, leaving all of the doors open behind him.

There was nothing, no sign of anything even remotely supernatural, no spell ingredients, no herbs, nothing. Dean scanned around the apartment once more, looking back at Tiffany who huddled against the wall where he had left her, too scared to move.

She should have run away whilst he was searching the apartment, should have bolted for the door, grabbed the phone called 911, screamed, something, anything, but the fear had held her in place and she could not move.

Fear that Dean had caused. "I'm sorry, I thought. ." he started to move towards her but stopped when she flinched, pushing herself further back into the wall to try to get away from him.

"Did you kill Matt," she asked her voice frail and thready.

"What?" the question had shock value, even though Dean knew he should've expected that thought, after the way he'd behaved. "No I. . .whoever killed Matt has gone after my brother. He's missing and I thought. . ." It was Dean's turn to allow a little of the fear to show, to let her in because he was going to need her help, because he didn't have the time. . .

"Your brother,"

"Sam," Dean supplied.

"Sam," she acknowledged, "is missing and you thought I . . ." and then realisation dawned. "My God you think I killed Matt." She looked up and met his gaze. "You think I'm going to kill your brother, but why. . .who would make you think that. . Why would I ever want to kill Matt?"

Dean took a couple of steps back, sinking onto the couch as his legs almost gave out from under him. On the drive, all the way over he had been convinced that it was her that he only needed to get to this place to find Sam, to get his brother back before he got hurt, but he was wrong. Damn, how could he be wrong? What was he going to do? How was he going to save. . .?

"Dean?"

He looked up Tiffany had moved away from the wall to sit on the arm of the chair but she was still keeping a wary distance from him. She looked like she was ready to bolt at any moment. God he had done this to her. "I'm Sorry," he said again, and he was, but he didn't have the time to make this up to her, he had to get back out, had to find Sam, had to. . .

He pushed up to his feet, or at least he tried to. His injured hip would have taken him slightly off balance and he maybe could have compensated, if his vision had given him a less wavy view of the room, if his thoughts hadn't been so focussed, if the change in elevation hadn't dropped his already screwed blood pressure. He fell back down and the world faded out.

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When Dean came round he had a wet cloth draped over his forehead and his injured wrist had been moved carefully to lie across his chest. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and found himself staring into Tiffany's eyes.

"Welcome back," she said with an unsure smile.

Dean tried to push himself up from his slumped position, his mind going from sluggish to racing faster than any drag car as thoughts and fears and imperatives jostled for attention in his consciousness. He had to get up, had to get out of here, Sam was in trouble, could be hurt could be. . he didn't have time for weakness, for politeness, for pain. He needed. . .the groan that escaped accompanied the sharp pains from his body and the stab of white from behind one eye, as he moved.

"Hey take it easy or you'll pass out again," Tiffany said the concern showing as she caught the cloth that fell from his face.

A gentle hand touched Dean's shoulder helping to support him as he allowed the room to tilt then right itself.

He turned his eyes to look at her. "I'm sorry but I need to get moving. Sam. . ."

"Is in danger I know, but you're not going to be much use to him if you're unconscious." She looked him up and down. "Somebody sure did a number on you since we first met." She turned to grab some pills from the table behind her. "Here take these."

Dean eyed them suspiciously. "I can't. . ."

"They won't make you drowsy, I promise, it's just something the doctor gave me when I hurt my shoulder."

Dean stared at them for another moment.

"They'll take the edge off the pain," she stated.

Dean weighed the arguments then grabbed the pills and dry swallowed them. Less pain would make it easier to function. "Thanks," he stated, his eyes not quite meeting hers, knowing that he didn't deserve this kindness from someone he had threatened and terrorised, not to mention the damage he had done.

"I need to get moving," he said, pushing to his feet much more cautiously this time.

"Wait," Tiffany said as he took a step. "I need to know, what made you think I had anything to do with Matt's death?"

"His friend Pete said you were jealous, that he rejected you and you were jealous of Emma before she died. That you tried to break them up."

Tiffany shook her head, looking down at the floor as she processed the accusation. "No, I. . .Matt and I were only ever friends. It was only after Emma died that I started seeing him. . . that I started thinking about him in that way." She looked up to meet Dean's gaze, needing to convince him of her sincerity. "I was happy for him, when he found Emma they were the perfect couple, they. . .If anyone was jealous it was Pete. He wanted Emma; you could see it in the way he looked at her, but she only ever had eyes for Matt. . . ."

Dean was already heading for the door. There was only one reason Pete could have for lying to them, for the misdirection, for the Godamn Oscar performance that he had given them in the shop. He was going to. . .

"Wait," Tiffany again running up behind him. "You're going to need this."

She handed Dean his gun and he cursed himself for forgetting something so important. He took it gratefully and stuffed it back into his waistband, surprised when Tiffany moved in front of him.

"Come on," she stated, "I'll drive it'll give you chance to get a little rest."

Dean took a step after her and grabbed her arm. "No, this is too dangerous. You. . ."

"Look, you want to save your brother and I want to get whoever was responsible for killing Matt. I know this town better than you; I know where Pete lives, where he's likely to hang out. I can help."

Dean hesitated but only for a moment, mainly because he didn't have the time or the strength to argue. He gestured for her to go in front of him.

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As they drove Dean allowed the anger and the rage to build once again, allowed the hatred for anyone who would hurt his brother to push up his blood pressure and trigger an adrenaline release. He knew that it was the only thing allowing him to mask the pain and the tiredness, knew it was what he needed to keep going, to give him the strength to save Sam and he was well practiced in using it, in calling on reserves that most people never used in order to just keep going, to stay alive, to keep his family alive. Emotion could be a powerful force if you could control it, but it came at a cost, and his body and mind would pay for it later. He knew that but it had never stopped him, and it sure as Hell wasn't going to stop him now.

He was out of the car almost before it had stopped, scanning the front of the shop which now had the corrugated metal doors down, closing off the car entrance. It was early afternoon and there was no way they should be closed unless they were taking a half day and that was more of a coincidence than Dean would allow. He moved around the front of the car, pulling out his weapon, making sure to shield it with his body from the street. "Stay here, and if I'm not out in twenty minutes call the police." Dean made it enough of an order that Tiffany didn't have room to argue, still he half expected her to follow him as he headed cautiously for the smaller door cut into the larger one. He glanced back to her as he reached it, flattening himself against the metal. She had stayed where he told her, watching him and he gave her a nod before he cautiously turned the handle on the door, it wasn't locked. He took one deep breath and rushed through, gun out, senses on full alert.

The interior was dark, shadowed, lit by only one of the four strip lights on the ceiling, and it took a moment for Dean's eyes to adjust from the sunshine outside. It was the noise that made him turn, just in time to move out of the way of the flame from the arc welder, he felt the heat as it cut through the air behind him, straight through the space he had just occupied. He scrabbled backwards keeping his gun trained on the guy in the mask who had just attacked him. "Drop it or I shoot," Dean ordered, allowing himself a quick scan around for other threats as he took another step back away from his attacker.

If the man heard him he made no acknowledgement, he just kept coming, flame out, ready to strike. Dean didn't quite believe it. It was like someone with a sword going for someone with a gun, he had all the advantages unless they got into close combat and Dean wasn't about to let that happen. It wasn't logical unless his assailant thought that he wasn't ready to shoot, big mistake. Still, Dean gave him one more warning. "I said drop it or I'll shoot." The guy kept advancing so Dean lowered his aim and fired. One shot mid thigh, the guy should have dropped like a stone.

There was no reaction; Dean took another step back, staring at the guy's leg which should be pouring with blood by now. He tried again; still aiming for the leg, this time he hit just above the knee-cap, a dirty shot that would rip out tendons and normally leave a guy limping for life. It wasn't a shot he would normally use, but he knew what the dirty shots were. No way anyone could keep walking with a bullet through there. His assailant paused for a moment this time, then took another step.

Dean raised his gun, no need to be cautious now, this wasn't a person, at least not one who was alive, and therefore whatever the hell it was he could kill it. He emptied his clip into the thing's chest but, apart from tearing ragged holes in its coveralls, the bullets had no effect. Crap!

Dean dropped his gun and watched for an opening, hand to hand against arc-welder. He just had to hope that whatever this was it was slow and stupid. He let it come a little closer before making his move. He stepped in and under its arm raising his shoulder as he grabbed the thing's wrist and took control of the weapon. Two quick twists and the flame was slicing across its chest, setting its clothes on fire as it went. Dean completed the turn and dropped the thing to the ground; pulling the welder free from its hand and kicking the mask off, sallow rotting flesh looked back at him. Zombie- double crap! He dropped to cut its head off with the flame. It writhed a little, trying to fight back but Dean and the flames had finally done some damage. It took some manoeuvring to sever all of the flesh but Dean finally dropped back panting, trying to ignore the macabre sight of the head rolling free, as he shut the welder down.

He scanned for his gun, crawling over to it before pushing up and heading for the office at the back of the shop. He moved slowly, cautiously just in case there were any other surprises waiting for him. He had to stop once to reload his weapon, awkward with only one fully functioning hand, noting that his wrist had taken a little more damage in the fight; a burn sliced across the back of his hand and wrist, funny that he hadn't even felt it, didn't really feel it now.

He took the first three steps and then scanned the room from his elevated position, nothing else moved. Satisfied that he wasn't going to be attacked from behind he turned his attention to the door above him. It was a tricky approach, anyone in the room had a potential advantage, but at least it opened inwards, making being knocked back down the stairs just a little less likely. Still the best approach was fast and violent. If there was anyone in that room then they had warning and time to prepare for his attack. So there was no advantage in slow and stealthy. Dean covered the last few steps as fast as his hip would allow. Shoving hard into the room, he dislodged a haphazard pile of furniture which didn't stop the door opening until it was wedged from an angle. He pointed his gun at Pete who was literally starting to cower in one of the corners, his shoulders hunching down as he continued to read from an old leather bound book.

Dean was across the room in three strides, noting the terror on Pete's face as he moved. Pete tried to read more quickly but it was no use. Dean was on him, the book knocked violently from his grasp, the gun digging into his throat as Pete was pushed back further into the wall.

"Where is he?" Dean shoved the gun up digging the barrel into the soft flesh under Pete's chin. "Where's my brother?"

"I. . .I . . ." Pete stuttered, unable to get words out through the jumble of fear. "I don't know. She. . .she has him."

"She who? What's your part in this?" Dean kept up the pressure now leaning his whole weight through his forearm on Pete's chest making it harder for him to breath.

"I don't. . "

Dean increased the pressure choking off Pete's words, "And don't tell me you don't know." Dean twisted the gun grinding it up into Pete's jawbone. "You saw what I did to your Zombie friend?"

Pete managed a slight nod.

"Well if you don't start telling me what I need to hear, then I'm going to drag you down there and start removing pieces with that torch." Dean's threat was slow and deliberate. "So why don't you start talking." He shifted his weight back a little so that Pete could get enough air to speak.

"Please, I don't know where she took him, honestly I don't. . .I can't . . ."

Dean stepped back letting Pete slump against the wall. He was talking now and he would keep talking. "Who is she? What is she?" He moved to pick up the book he'd knocked to the floor. It was a text on necromancy. Shit, they spent their entire lives trying to get rid of spirits and this idiot was summoning them.

"Her name is Rebecca," Pete started, "and she's a. . ." but he couldn't finish the sentence. No way in Hell this nut job with a gun was going to believe that he'd summoned a ghost. Most people didn't even believe they . . .

"She's a spirit that you summoned right?" Dean asked. Pete could only nod, his mouth dropping open slightly. "What else?" Dean demanded.

"She was. . .she is a witch, a powerful one. She. . ." He looked into Dean's eyes, the intensity was terrifying. "I swear I didn't know she would do this when I summoned her. I just wanted Matt to pay, for killing Emma, it was his fault. He knew the brakes on that car were faulty. I told him not to drive it, and he let her. . . So I wanted him to pay. I didn't think. . . . I didn't know. . ."

"So! What? You summoned some bad-ass spirit of a long dead witch and you thought everything would end with puppies and roses?" Dean spat the words turning to throw the book onto the desk beside him, the impact making Pete flinch.

Pete shook his head. "I don't know. I. . ."

"You don't know a lot do you." Dean got in Pete's face again. "So she came back and killed your friend Matt and then she wouldn't go away again."

"I thought I could control her," Pete stated. "I thought I'd be able to send her back once she was done but she's too powerful and the summoning spell. . . it links her to me. I don't know how to break it. She would kill me if. . ."

"If you don't find her new victims?"

Pete nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor. "She needs victims consumed by fire to manifest."

Dammit! Dean slammed his gun into the wall next to Pete's head in an effort to stop himself from removing it with his bare hands. The snivelling coward in front of him had killed two people set Sam up to be the third victim, the urge to tear him apart was almost overwhelming. "So you," Dean spoke quietly, coldly, his mouth next to Pete's ear, "found people who's girlfriend's had burnt to death and set them up to die."

The nod this time was a little more animated, Pete's eyes were screwed closed, tears already flowing. "Yes," he whispered, "God help me yes."

"Oh I don't think God is going to be helping you anytime soon." Dean stated. He stepped back opening the book on the desk. "Show me the summoning spell and tell me everything you know about this witch."

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Sam rolled onto his back and let out a contented sigh, pushing sweat soaked hair back from his face. Jess pressed into his side planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

"That," she practically purred, "was amazing." She ran a finger down his chest. "It's such a shame I'm going to have to kill you now." She lifted herself up on her elbow so that she could smile down at Sam, he gazed into her eyes. "Do you want to help me decide how to do it?"

Sam smiled back giving his head a slight shake. "You decide," he said leaning up to kiss her, before dropping back down to the pillow. "You can do whatever you want."

"Hmm," she murmured softly, running her hand down his chest and across tightly muscled flesh, imagining the blade of a knife slicing through as she went, the sides parting, the blood, bubbling and spreading. Then she patted his stomach. "OK get dressed, you're far too distracting like this and I want to think about it a little more before we start. Sam nodded and obediently swung himself to a sitting position, picking up and pulling on a t-shirt as Jess found her own clothes. "Now I wonder what's keeping that brother of yours."

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Dean kicked open the door to their motel room, he was doing a lot of that today but it wasn't doing that much for anger release. Every part of him felt like a curled knot of anger. They'd been played for fools by a cowardly idiot and stalked by a frickin' two century dead witch, nothing was going to ease that not even sending the bitch to Hell..

He'd cursed himself several times on the short journey over for not putting two and two together and making four earlier. Both of the previous killings had been done in the victim's own homes. Since the room was technically Sam's only home, unless you wanted to count the Impala and there wasn't enough room for the kind of violence this bitch showed in there, it should have been obvious that this would be where she would bring him. All he'd had to do was stay put, of course then he wouldn't have had the information that he needed. Not that that would be worth a damn if he was too late. If anything had happened to Sam while he was. .

"Hello Dean," Jessica's soft voice greeted him from where she was draped down his brother's side, her head resting on his shoulder. "Sam and I have been waiting to kill you."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .