Chapter Nine

Amie stepped over the blood flowing out of Sam and pooling at her feet. She spun the knife in her hand, nonchalantly, as if stabbing her boyfriend's brother to death was something she did every day. She could see Dean watching her, warily, as she crossed the room to where he was chained. She stopped in front of him and ran her hand up his leg, over his crotch, to the waistband of his jeans. She hooked a finger in his jeans and pulled him forward, the knife in her hand resting under his chin.

"Amie, honey," Dean pleaded. "You have to listen to me. You need to stop."

She laughed and pushed him away. "I don't need you anymore." She ran the knife down his torso, leaned against him and kissed his cheek. "Sorry, baby," she muttered as she slid the knife through the space between his ribs.

Amie bit back a scream as she came awake, one arm stopping short as she sat up. "What the fuck?" she mumbled. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. She was in Dean's room. Scratch that. She was in their room. She'd cuffed herself to the bed so she wouldn't hurt anyone. She looked to her left. Dean was still sleeping, his back to her.

She laid back down, her cuffed hand restricting her movements. She ran her other hand over her face and felt the wetness on her cheeks from tears she didn't know she had shed. She noticed her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry. The dream had freaked her out. It had been so real that Amie could still smell the coppery scent of the blood she'd spilled and feel the knife as she pushed it into Dean and watched the light fade from his beautiful green eyes. For just a second, before she woke up, she had felt her heart swell with triumph, knowing that she was the one to finally kill Dean Winchester.

Amie put her hand over her eyes, the tears spilling down her face. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she having these murderous thoughts? She loved Dean, she didn't want to kill him. Shit, she couldn't stomach the thought of him being hurt, let alone dead.

Dean rolled over in his sleep. He reached a hand out and when he found her, he grasped her arm and pulled himself to her. He slid his arm over her waist and buried his face in her hair against her neck. Amie heard him inhale deeply before his breathing settled back into a steady rhythm. She ran her fingers over his arm, caressing it. She turned it so she could see his watch, the numbers luminescent in the dark room. She sighed in frustration when she realized she'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. She closed her eyes, praying for sleep. Unfortunately, the only thing she could see against her closed lids was her face in the dream, her eyes completely black. Coal black.

Amie sat up carefully, moving Dean's arm so it was resting next to him. He mumbled something incoherent and rolled to his back. She sat against the headboard for a few minutes, her mind racing. She needed to get out of the bed, move or something. But first she had to take care of the handcuffs. She checked the bedside table, looking for something she could use to open the lock. There was nothing on the tabletop, so she slid open the top drawer. Inside was a ponytail holder and several bobby pins that she'd left the last time she'd stayed in Dean's room. She grabbed one of the bobby pins and used her teeth to bend it into a shape she could use.

Using the bent bobby pin, she unlocked the cuff holding her right wrist to the headboard. She laid it on the bed, trying not to rattle it, and set the bobby pin on the bedside table. Amie stood up and quickly pulled off her button-up shirt, exchanging it for a clean t-shirt. She buttoned the top button of the jeans she was still wearing. She was amazed that she and Dean had made it through their marathon make-out session with most of their clothes still on. There was something to be said for self-control.

Amie crossed the room and picked up her gun. She opened her duffle bag and pulled out the extra magazine. Maybe some time on the gun range, taking her frustrations out on the flimsy paper targets, would make her feel better. If that didn't work, she'd go beat the crap out of the punching bag in the garage. She slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Kevin's room was across the hall from Dean's and next to that was an extra bedroom. The door was open and Amie could see moving lights, most likely from a TV, spilling across the floor. She tip-toed past the door, glancing in as she did. Sam was asleep on the bed, propped up against several pillows, with Shannon leaning against him. It looked like she was asleep as well. Sam was obviously being his usually sweet, not-pushy self—his arms were crossed over his chest and one foot was on the floor, in what was surely an attempt at propriety.

Amie laughed to herself. Sam was so different from his brother. She remembered the first time she and Dean had been in a room alone, at night. Dean had definitely not made any attempt to keep his hands to himself. She paused, her mind racing back to that night. Had they been touched by the cupid then? She was willing to bet that they had been. She remembered how desperate and needy they had both acted, practically ripping the clothes off of each other. They had only stopped short of having sex because Amie had smacked her head against the wall, hard. It had literally knocked some sense into her and she'd pushed Dean away, reminding herself that she didn't want to be a notch on the infamous Dean Winchester's bedpost.

She opened the door to the gun range, stepped in and pushed it shut behind her. She knew that the sounds of her gunshots would echo through the bunker, but she hoped that the closed doors and quietly playing televisions would mask some of the sound. She popped out the magazine already loaded into her .22 longrifle and checked it. When she was satisfied that she was ready, she lined herself up and prepared to shoot the target about twenty feet away. But her hand was still shaking and every time she tried to aim, it seemed to get worse. Finally, she stopped and took a deep breath. She looked at the floor and closed her eyes momentarily. She just needed to picture something or someone she wanted to kill. Dean's face immediately popped into her head. Without thinking or even opening her eyes, Amie fired three shots. She opened her eyes. She had hit the target dead center, all three times.

Amie leaned against the door, staring at the gun in her hand. Now she was imagining killing Dean when she was awake. What the hell was wrong with her? She quickly took out the weapon's magazine and ejected the bullet in the chamber and set them on the counter next to the door. She tucked the empty gun into the waistband of her jeans, against her back. She didn't trust herself with a loaded weapon.

She searched every thought, every feeling and every emotion she'd had since she'd come back from the angels' underground tunnels. She couldn't find an ounce of hatred for Dean. The only time it seemed to appear was when her subconscious was involved—like when she was dreaming or trying not to think. This had to be because of the demon blood. Or the angel blood. Shit, she didn't know which. Both we're equally big dicks. Maybe it was hard-wired into them to hate the Winchesters and when their blood had been put in her that feeling had for some reason transferred as well. Wouldn't that just be her good god damned luck?

"Cas?" she called. "Castiel?" He was not her first choice when it came to seeking help, but he was probably the only one who might be able to give her answers. "Cas, I need to talk to you!" she yelled.

"You do not have to yell," a deep voice muttered from beside her. He sounded irritated.

Amie jumped, despite the fact that she had been calling him. She took a deep breath. She would never get used to angels just appearing out of nowhere.

"Sorry," she said. "I wasn't thinking. I've only done this one other time."

Castiel nodded. "I understand. Not everyone is accustomed to calling angels. What can I do for you?"

Amie explained what had been happening—her reaction to Dean in the motel room, the dream, and what had just happened with the gun. She also told him her theory as to why it was happening.

Castiel looked off into space, apparently thinking. She waited, hoping he would have some kind of answer.

"It is entirely plausible," he finally said. "It is true that neither angels nor demons are very fond of the Winchester brothers. Perhaps that is encoded into our very beings. It seems more likely that this particular trait is demon related though. Maybe the demon that had been possessing the young woman has had previous experience with Sam and Dean. When its blood was transferred to you, its hatred for them also transferred."

Amie sighed. Things just kept getting better and better. She was being pulled in two different directions—she loved Dean and apparently part of her hated him as well. She finally nodded at Cas. "Well, that's just great. I guess I'll have to stay locked up when I sleep so I don't hurt Dean. Or Sam for that matter." She rubbed her wrist, the one that had been handcuffed, absentmindedly. "Is there anything that can be done about it?"

"No, not really. You will just have to be extremely careful. There is no way of knowing what might set you off." Castiel gave her a small, strained smile. "By the way, how are things going? Are you and Dean remaining celibate as I instructed?"

She laughed. "No actually, Cas, we're not, but we're also not having…conventional sex, so to speak. Dean's keeping his bits and pieces away from my bits and pieces, just like you said. We're…being creative." She was rewarded with an uncomfortable silence from the angel, as well as a rather disgusted expression.

"Umm, I'm glad to hear it," he replied. "If there is nothing further, I'll be going."

Amie nodded. She heard the flap of wings and he was gone.

She decided that since having a weapon in her possession was out of the question, she would go beat the crap out of the punching bag in the garage. She pulled her hair into a ponytail using the rubber band she kept on her wrist and hurried down the hallway. The garage floor was cold on her bare feet, so she was happy to step on the mat that Sam had put under the heavy bag. She started slowly, throwing right and left jabs as she circled the bag, her speed increasing as she warmed up. Eventually she started kicking it as well, the sound of each roundhouse and punch she threw making a satisfying thump against the bag. She worked the bag over until sweat was dripping down her face and her t-shirt was sticking to her back and chest. Her hands began to sting and the muscles in her arms and legs were aching, but she kept going.

Amie heard someone clear their throat behind her. She turned to see Dean leaning against the Impala, wearing just his jeans. She dropped her hands and wiped the sweat off of her face with her forearm.

"Hey baby," he said quietly. "I woke up and you were gone. Scared me, after what happened yesterday."

"Sorry," she muttered, crossing the room to stand in front of him. "I didn't want to wake you." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, skimming a finger down his torso as she did.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, a serious expression on his face. "So much for the handcuffs," he said. Amie could tell by his tone that he was pissed.

Amie shrugged, deciding to ignore it. "I guess I should have cleaned out the drawers too." She didn't like the way he was looking at her, like he knew something she didn't. She went back to the punching bag and started hitting it.

Dean followed her. He stood on the opposite side of the bag, holding it as she threw punch after punch. He watched her closely and she could tell he was assessing every move she made, waiting for the opportune time to speak.

"Do you have something to say, Dean?" she finally asked. She stopped to catch her breath, waiting for his answer.

"Cas came to see me," he replied as he stepped to the side of the bag. He leaned against it, one hand above his head holding the chain that attached it to the ceiling. He waited, as if he expected her to say something. When she didn't he sighed loudly and said, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Amie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She should have known Castiel would go running to Dean as soon as she talked to him. God damn angel anyway. "Apparently, I don't need to tell you because Cas already did. What is he, a high school girl? Runs to tell you everything?" She punched the bag, knocking it into Dean. He stumbled to the side a few steps, then grabbed the bag.

"He said that he thought I should know, so I can take precautions. So we can take precautions," he said. "He was trying to help. He doesn't want anyone hurt."

"Whatever," she mumbled. Amie didn't believe that for a second. Castiel was running this particular show and he wanted to make sure he told Dean that his girlfriend wanted to kill him before she could even utter the words. She was starting to feel like Cas would do anything to come between them.

Dean hit the bag openhanded, the sound reverberating through the garage. "God dammit, Amie, knock it off! You should have told me," he yelled.

"I was going to tell you," she shot back. "But that stupid ass, arrogant angel who thinks he knows everything blinked out of here and popped in to tell you before I got a chance. Christ, Dean, give me a little credit here! I wasn't going to run around the bunker knowing I could lose it at any second and not tell you!" She spun and kicked the bag, connecting with it just inches from Dean's face.

He stepped back, startled, then shoved the bag hard enough to knock it into Amie. Not expecting it, she stumbled and fell to the mat. She shot to her feet, pissed. She flew at Dean and threw a punch, connecting with his chin, knocking him back a step. She immediately threw another one, but he was expecting it and deflected it. She brought her right leg up to kick him, but he shoved it away, so she immediately swung around and kicked him in the gut with her left foot. Dean stumbled back, the air rushing from him with a loud whooshing sound and before she even knew what she was doing, Amie tackled him to the ground. They rolled on the ground, both fighting for the dominant position, until she forced him onto his back, her thighs tightly gripping him. Dean grabbed her wrists, his hands like a vise. He pushed his knee between them and used it to flip her off him, her back hitting the mat. She felt the air rush from her lungs. Dean scrambled to straddle her, grabbing her wrists again and holding them over her head.

"Fuck me," he muttered, his face just inches from hers.

Dean's words sent a spike of heat through her, pooling in her stomach. Desire pushed every other thought out of her mind. Amie brought her head up and grabbed his lower lip between her teeth, biting it until she tasted blood. Dean pulled away and released one of her hands, his hand immediately going to his lip. "God dammit…" he swore.

Before he could finish, she grabbed the back of his head, her fingers twisting in his hair, and forced his lips to hers. She kissed him hungrily, her tongue exploring his mouth. She felt him hesitate momentarily, but then he met her with equal fervor. He grabbed her pony tail, wrapped his hand around it and held the back of her head, keeping their lips cemented together. He released her hands so he could slip his under her shirt, his fingers immediately going to her nipple, pulling and twisting it. Amie gasped at the combination of pain and pleasure Dean was inflicting on her, her body aching for him. She fumbled with the buttons of his jeans, hurriedly undoing them so she could free him from the constraints of his pants. She pushed them down his hips until she could stroke his erection, her fingernails grazing him as she pulled him free. Dean hissed, deepening their kiss, only breaking it long enough to tug her shirt off. He unbuttoned her jeans, quickly sliding his hand past her low slung underwear to caress her, teasing her slowly and agonizingly, brushing her entrance repeatedly with his finger.

"Dean, please…," she begged, pushing herself against his hand.

Suddenly, the lights in the garage flashed and Amie heard the unmistakable sound of wings flapping.

"Dean!" a familiar, deep, gravelly voice bellowed from the other side of the garage.

Dean stopped kissing her. "Son of a bitch," he growled, out of breath, his forehead resting against hers. He sat up on his knees, breaking their contact.

Amie scrambled backward away from him, looking over Dean's shoulder. She saw Castiel crossing the garage, his face angry. She grabbed her shirt and stood up.

"Your angel wants you," she stammered. "You better go." She bolted from the garage, passing Castiel on her way out. She was positive he had a smug, satisfied look on his face.