The Sword, the Singer, and the Vessel
"No Evil"

42:47

"You wouldn't happen to know sign language, would you?"

I shook my head, wondering when Sam had added sign language to his seemingly endless list of skills. Between his staggering knowledge of the occult and his proficiency in combat, measuring up sounded laughable.

"We'll figure something else out," Sam promised.

I nodded, dragging my fingers across the quilt as I stood. I pressed my left hand to the cool wall, keeping my steps slow. I flinched when Sam's hand closed around my upper arm and stopped.

"Here, let me help you." Sam's other hand patted my opposite arm. "Do you want me to lead you to the bathroom?"

"No, I'm fine." I shrugged Sam's hands off. I remembered to shake my head in his direction. "I can handle it."

Sam hesitated so I took another step forward. A relieved sigh puffed out of my lips when his hands fell away with the movement. I turned my head toward him and nodded before resuming my trek forward. I tried to ignore the weight of Sam's gaze pressing into my back. When my hand connected with the glass door of the bathroom, I smiled, proud that I had managed to avoid ramming my shins into any of the furniture this time.

Every step I took remained stilted—stilted in a way that spoke of the intangible nature of my surroundings. Nothing seemed to exist until I nudged it with an ill placed hand gesture or step. Sam might have vacated the room for all I knew. If he never spoke again, he would become a part of the void. Nothing existed unless it echoed in my ears or moved against my skin.

I could shuffle past Edward and never know.

I scrubbed at my quivering mouth and leaned forward, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the mirror. I had touch. I had sound.

I had Sam if I could just pull myself together enough to maintain some semblance of calm.

...

I smiled a little in the direction from which I felt Sam's gaze, flinching far less when his hand touched mine. He applied little pressure to my skin and I knew my previous behavior had made him tentative. I tried to maintain my smile, though I could feel it begin to tense. My attention veered away from my own thoughts when I felt something warm pressed into my hand.

"In case you want to talk," Sam said, adding a notepad alongside what must've been a pen.

"Thanks," I replied, wracking my head for something to say. I didn't feel much like talking after my retreat into the bathroom, but I needed to show my appreciation for the gesture.

"Why would someone target you for being Hunters?" I wrote, turning the notepad toward the sound of his voice.

Sam's suggestion that the killer might've inflicted the curses on the brothers for being Hunters had seemed odd when he first suggested it, but I hadn't really thought about it until now.

"Not everyone approves of what we do."

"But I thought the whole point of the murders were to punish immoral people," I wrote, "Wouldn't the killer commend you guys for hunting evil?"

"They might not agree with our...methods," Sam said.

"What do you mean?" I wrote, uncomfortable with the tone Sam's voice had taken.

"You've seen it yourself, Bella," Sam said, his voice quiet. "Remember Spokane?"

"Derek Denasy," I breathed out. I lowered my hands to my side.

"Don't get me wrong," Sam said, "We've saved a lot of people and I'm proud of that. But what we do...it's messy."

I wondered if, when the curse finally killed me, I would end up just like Derek Denasy—haunting the halls of where I died, pointing the living toward my crypt. Would I be able to see in the Afterlife? Or would the blindness follow me, leaving me to spend years stumbling along until finally a Hunter—someone like Sam and Dean—dug me up and drowned me in kerosene, forcing me to endure my dead flesh turning to ash—just like Laurent.

"Bella, you need to breathe."

But I couldn't—I couldn't—because I couldn't see, I couldn't see, I couldn't see—and it burned—

"C'mon, Bella. You can handle this." Sam's hands grasped my arms, his tentative touch abandoned in the wake of my—panic attack? Was that what this was? Or was the curse burrowing behind my eyes and my ribs— "Inhale," Sam urged, inhaling and squeezing my arms. "Exhale." His grip lessened as his breath whooshed out.

I tried to follow his example, ignoring how...rickety my breath sounded, as if I might've been running out. Sam's grip tightened again.

"Inhale."

I clenched my eyes shut and attempted to follow suit.

"Exhale."

So much for maintaining a calm facade.

"Inhale."

Sam repeated his mantra for a time—I couldn't say how long. When my breath became more regular, I tried to step back, wiping at the thick, almost viscous tears in my eyes. With my panic tempered, my next breath came a bit too clear.

"Sam?" My voice sounded small and cracked, making Sam's deafness almost comforting. The tracts down my cheeks itched. They must have slid down my face like war paint. "I'm...bleeding, aren't I?"

"Bella," Sam's voice sounded worried, "are you in pain?"

I almost shook my head before I realized that withholding information—any information—about the curse could hinder our attempt to break it. I nodded, finally, resisting the urge to rub my eyes in an attempt to soothe their dull throbbing. I lifted up the notepad still clutched in my hand and tried to ignore the way the paper stuck to my fingers.

"Not much worse than before," I wrote. "Have you and Dean been bleeding, too?"

Sam took the notepad and pen from me, exchanging the items for a damp cloth. I wondered when he had managed to grab that and how I hadn't noticed his movements.

"I can't speak for Dean, but there hasn't been any pain or blood on my end," Sam replied, covering my hand with his own and guiding the cloth around my eyes in gentle swipes. "I didn't find any references to bleeding prior to the victims' deaths. Unless Dean has been covering up his own symptoms..."

"Something's wrong with me."

"The curse might be effecting you differently." Sam spoke in a soft, halting voice. "Like it did in Kennewick."

"I don't understand why." I rubbed harder at my eyes, ignoring Sam's attempts to gentle my touch. "I haven't done anything.

Liar hissed through my thoughts, drowning out whatever Sam said next. Could I truly mark myself innocent when I had so often been cruel? Playing into Charlie's fears in order to run off with Edward in a misguided attempt to protect him. Perhaps it had been justice at work when Edward left me curled up on the forest floor. Edward had been just as precise in the way he tapped each insecure fissure until the cracks spread too far, leaving a shattered girl among the crumpled leaves.

The scrape of wood across tile drew me back to the present.

"What are you doing?" I asked, sweeping my hand in a wide arc in front of me, meeting only air.

"I knew we were missing something." Sam's voice seemed to be coming from a point much higher than usual.

A series of squeaks and the snap of what had to be metal followed.

"Found it!" Sam's voice had grown tinny.

"Found what?" I called, despite the futility of speaking to a deaf Sam who probably couldn't see me.

"A place we've been together," Sam's voice continued to come out muffled. "It was the obvious answer, but Dean didn't find anything." I took a careful step closer. "Because there wasn't anything to find!"

I frowned in the direction of Sam's voice. Were the effects of the curse worsening? Did it spare Sam the blood in favor of whatever had just taken hold?

The sound of the door's lock sliding rose over the scrape of metal and I turned, surprised by how short their absence had seemed. Time continued to slip by me. How long had I been in that bathroom? How long had I allowed myself to wallow in my melancholic thoughts?

"They're back, Sam," I called in relief, sliding my hands through the air toward the sound of his rummaging.

I listened to the door creak open. Their steps—no, his steps—paused after only a few taps onto the floor. It must've been Dean, for Bobby would have spoken before now. I had the feeling that half of the things Bobby had said were for my benefit. Perhaps Dean had pointed out my fears that festered in the silence.

"Dean, is that you?" I asked, waiting for his telltale knocks.

"Dean didn't find a hex bag because whatever they're using is airborne," Sam continued, "untraceable except for the moisture coating the vents."

"Sam?" I took a step back.

"It's the motel—whoever or whatever is cursing these people is doing it through the motel!"

I swept my hands behind me, relieved when I finally managed to curl a fist into one of his pant legs.

"Bella, what—"

A sharp crack cut across Sam's voice and I staggered back. My heel clicked against something metal and I jerked down to grab it, maintaining a half-crouched position. Strips of metal cut into my fingers—the vent. It was the vent.

I listened for the tap of their feet and swung upward at the first hint of movement, feeling the shock of the impact travel through the vent and into my hands. A pained grunt—a male grunt—preceded the crash to the floor, rendering my surroundings a cacophonous mess.

"Sam?"

I tried not to panic, though I couldn't afford to hesitate—not when I knew the man remained in the room. Sam's silence could mean that he hadn't noticed my lips moving. It could also mean that he'd lost consciousness. The realization that staying would only add another body to the floor tasted bitter.

I staggered through the doorway, pressing my right hand along the wall. When my hand trailed against the wood of another door, I felt it cave in. My balance wavered as a hand grabbed at my chest, fingers curling into my shirt and yanking. Another hand suppressed my surprised shout, palm sealed over my lips. The hands twirled me around and pulled my back into a cushioned chest, deflecting my attempts to elbow and wrench myself away.

"Don't move," a female voice instructed, banding her arm around mine, "He's coming."

I stilled in her grasp and tried to suppress my harsh breath. I could hear a distant clang, but the heavy door muffled whatever else the man might have been doing. The thought of Sam—likely lying defenseless in the room—gave me cause to renew my struggles.

"I'm going to remove my hands, but keep quiet unless you want him to take you, too," she murmured into my ear, making me twitch.

When her arms slid away from me, I whirled around, retreating backward.

"Who are you?" I gritted out.

In my rush to distance myself from her, I lost my footing and would have crashed if not for the return of her hands.

"What did I just say?" Her tone sounded exasperated, but her grip on my arms remained gentle. I pulled against it until she released me with a final squeeze.

"Who are you?" I repeated, keeping my voice low.

"A friend."

I huffed out a breath in amusement.

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Because going blind has made you paranoid," she replied. "Hanging around the Wonder Twins probably hasn't helped."

"Wonder Twins?"

"Sam and Dean." I could almost hear her eye roll. "Those two are so skittish."

"For good reason."

"Oh, so they've shared their reasons with you?"

I frowned.

"They've shared enough."

"I doubt you really believe that." Her tone seemed amused.

"How do you know Sam and Dean?"

"We go way back."

"Are you a hunter?"

"We don't have time for an interview. Not if we want to save Sam." I turned to face the door again. I didn't flinch when she grabbed my arm this time. "Can you trust me to save him?"

She sounded so strong and certain. However the brothers might know her and whatever the reason for her presence now—I could hear the conviction in her voice.

I glanced into the void over my shoulder.

"Tell me what you know."

...

"You said you were going to help Sam."

"And I will," her voice held nothing but an ease that grated on my nerves.

"But what are you doing?" I pressed, squeezing my arms tighter around myself.

"Helping Sam."

I clenched my jaw and listened to the clink of glass, the scrape of stone. Being unable to see in the motel paled in comparison to this. We hadn't gone far, I didn't think, but without a mental image to associate with my current surroundings, I knew only a cloying darkness.

"These things take time, if you want to get them right," she explained once the silence had begun to make me itch.

"What things? How much time?" I demanded. "Who are you?"

"Have you considered a career in journalism?" she asked. A sudden slam of—I really couldn't tell what—made me flinch. "You could even hide behind dumpsters. Demand answers from B-list celebrities."

I grit my teeth.

"You—"

"You ask too many questions," she pointed out in a mild voice, "when I really need to concentrate." The constant rustle around the direction of her voice stilled. "You do realize that one mistake could be fatal for Sam, don't you?"

I closed my mouth with a frown and turned my head away. The noises resumed and I tried to focus on each individual sound in an effort to pinpoint their origin. Glass and stone remained distinct and obvious. The rustle of paper, the crack of a spine—what book served as her reference? Something liquid pouring into something else. The sing of metal—a knife slicing through something, but what?

The click, click, clack of her tools turned into the tick, tick, tock of a clock and I clenched my fists tighter around my arms, wondering what Sam suffered while I stood here. Idle. Had Dean and Bobby returned to find the motel in shambles? Tick, tick, Tock. How would they react when they learned of how I had fled, leaving Sam behind to the cruel hands of a serial killer? Tick, tick, tock.

How much time did we have left?

Tick, tick, tock.

"Bella."

I jerked at the sound of her voice, much closer than it had been since she led me away from the motel to our current location. Her hand rested on my shoulder and I tensed, sucking in a breath filled with smells potent enough to shake a cough past my clenched jaw.

"This isn't an antidote," she said, pressing something cool and smooth against my hand. I released my arms to better feel the object—a glass bottle with something rough on top. A cork? "But it will help stall the effects of the curse. I just need one more ingredient."

I curled my fingers around the bottle, mindful of the potential disaster that dropping the potion would cause.

"What do you need?" I couldn't imagine why she chose to speak to me now, after so much time spent hushing me. How could I help her when I couldn't even see?

"Your blood."

I staggered back, a distant part of me acknowledging that I had relaxed enough during our conversation for the shoulder she gripped to have gone slack.

"Bella—"

"This is a potion." I waved the bottle in front of me, in front of her. "And you're—you're a witch. Aren't you?" Her silence acted as confirmation. "I know what having my blood can make you capable of."

"The only thing your blood will make me capable of right now is saving Sam," she said, the annoyance in her voice gratifying to hear after her earlier ease.

"Why should I believe you?" I clenched my hands, glaring at where I estimated her face to be. "You knew when that man attacked. You've been watching us, haven't you?" I took another step back, my eyes widening. "You could've done something—you could've helped Sam. And instead, you made me leave him there to-to—"

I gasped when my back hit something solid and cool, her hands now clenched around both my shoulders.

"Now let's get one thing straight," she hissed, "you left Sam. Not me." I clenched my jaw against the way my face seemed inclined to crumple. "The guy who cursed you has real ancient spirits at his beck and call. Sam had already been knocked out. How successful do you think we would've been if we stuck around? Four against one and...a half." I slumped against the wall. "No antidote. No means of finding the parent worm."

"Parent worm?" I croaked out.

"The Sanshi allowing him to summon Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru." Her grip on my shoulders eased. "Finding it is the only way to stop the curse."

"So...you used Sam for bait?" I tried to muster a glare for her under the weight of my own guilt.

"I'm using this situation to our advantage," she sighed. Her hands slipped down to my upper arms, but her grip remained loose. "I need your blood because the curse is already thrumming through it." Her left hand moved from my shoulder to my hand, curling around both it and the bottle clenched within. "Think of this potion like a shot. The body can't learn to fight a disease until someone gives it a weak version to conquer."

"I don't think the curse in my blood is getting weaker," I muttered. The ache behind my eyes had grown steadier after the loss of blood earlier.

"Not yet, but when I add it to this," her hand clenched tighter around mine in a quick pulse, "it will."

Whether she spoke the truth or not, I knew the limitations of my options.

I sighed, but nodded after a few moments, allowing her to pull the bottle from my hand. In my current state, I had no allusions that she couldn't have taken both it and my blood by force if she had a mind to. She lifted my left hand and I tensed, waiting for her to draw blood.

"Hold still," she murmured, pressing something cool and sharp against my hand—the blade.

"Wouldn't pricking my finger work bett—"

I hissed in pain when the blade swiped down the middle of my palm, trying to ignore the slide of blood down my skin. The heavy smell of it meshed with the potent scents of the potion's ingredients, diluting it enough to make it manageable, if still unpleasant.

"Did you have to make such a big cut?" I wondered, resisting the urge to wrench my hand out of her grasp.

"It needed to come through your head, but between your life and heart—so yes."

"What?"

"Your lines—head, life, and heart," she muttered, squeezing my hand tighter.

"Palm reading is real?"

"Everything's a little real." I could hear the shrug in her voice. She released my hand. "Head invokes intent, which was necessary for this potion to work."

"Really?" I tried to follow the sound of her steps away with my gaze. "I thought you could just take it?"

"For most destructive potions and spells, yes." I tried to keep my hand relaxed when she picked it back up and began wrapping it with a soft cloth. I hoped the knife had been sanitized. "Others require consent."

I hummed at the new information, blinking against a sudden pulse of pain behind my eyes.

"How long will it take the potion to give me back my eyesight?"

Her hands stilled on mine.

"This potion won't work on you."

I pulled my hand from her grip, pressing further back into the wall behind me.

"You said—"

"This one won't work on you because it contains your blood." She sounded almost apologetic. "You need one with the blood of one of the brothers—Dean, most likely."

"Why Dean?"

"The three of you were cursed together. You each need to exchange blood. If we give the potion to Sam, then he'll have yours. That leaves you to take Dean's and Dean to take Sam's."

I frowned, wishing I could validate her claims one way or another. Too many blind spots cluttered my knowledge of the occult. The sooner I found Sam, the better.

"Let's go find Sam," I said, pushing away from the wall.

"We can't—not yet. The potion needs time to mix and settle."

"How much time?"

"This isn't an exact science." I thought she might've huffed then, if she were the type to huff. "It depends on your blood, on how potent the curse has already become."

"Can you estimate?" I pressed.

She sighed.

"Anywhere between twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

The scrape of something metal added a fitting chorus to the panic of my thoughts. I couldn't know quite how long it had been since we lost our senses, but I knew somewhere deep in my gut that forty-eight hours would be much too late.

"Might as well take a seat," she offered, and I realized the metallic scrape must've come from the chair she dragged over. "We're going to be here for a little while."

Tick, tick, tock.

...

Apologies for the long wait. I honestly can't believe over a year has gone by. I seem to be losing track of time.