One in a Million Chapter Twenty-Five: Turning Out, a supernatural fanfic

Chapter Twenty-Five: Turning Out

~This is gonna break your heart

I'm so sorry, yeah I know

This is gonna break your heart

Is this all that life's about?

Tryna love how you turn out

I don't love it much at all

I don't think I love it much at all~

"Sweet dark-eyed mother of Sullest, Marty! You're an idiot!" Isaac exclaimed, appearing as soon as that Gabriel guy had left.

"Thank you for your input, Mr. I-touch-burning-stove-tops! You're just the king of wisdom, aren't you?" I replied sarcastically. I picked up a chair from the library and moved with it into the kitchen to help me reach the cereal. Isaac followed behind me and I could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

"That was one time and that's not the point!" Isaac defended.

I didn't look back at him as I continued into the kitchen.

"Then what's the point?" I placed the chair on the ground and stepped onto it. Isaac crossed his arms.

"The point is that you are stupid."

I raised an eyebrow as I considered my cereal options.

"I am? Huh, good to know." I selected the box of Crunch Cookie Crunch and hopped off my makeshift step ladder.

"Yeah, you are," Isaac said, glaring at me.

"Wonderful, thanks for telling me. I enjoy our conversations," I deadpanned, pouring my cereal.

"Marty, I'm serious. What is wrong with you?"

"Not sure 'bout that, man. I mean, can I list 'undead blood-sucker' as a clinical impairment?" I shrugged, lifting a spoon full of cookie product to my face. Isaac was not amused. With a flick of his wrist, my spoon flew from my hand and hovered in the air between us. I frowned at him. "Not cool, bro. I'm adding 'annoying psychic ghost brother' to the impairments list."

"Why do you always have to be such a showoff, Marty?" Isaac sighed, speaking quietly now. I huffed, setting my cereal bowl down and turning away from my brother. I gripped the edges of the counter, letting my head hang down; I could feel the bitter smile stretch across my face.

"You know why," I answered, matching his quiet tone.

"Well, it needs to stop. You don't have to prove anything to these hunters, or any of their friends. In fact, the less you prove, the better," Isaac said.

"What does it matter?" I mumbled.

"What does it matter?" Isaac repeated, stepping closer, "Marty, this life and death! That's sort of important!"

"Is it?" I wondered.

"Of course it is! If these guys think you're hiding something, then they won't stop until they find out what it is. You won't be able to dodge their suspicion for very long. If they find out, they will kill you," Isaac warned.

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, "I mean, today, tomorrow, in six months; what's the difference? They'll kill me. It doesn't matter the day or the time. You were right. I should never have come. Why should I try?"

"Because I don't want you to die. Because you don't deserve to die!" Isaac's voice was steel and his eyes were iron.

"Why not? Why not just get it over with?" I whispered, shaking my head.

"Because I was wrong, Marty," He said. I looked up, shocked. "I was wrong."

"That's a first," I chuckled, bitterly.

"These hunters are different. If you can gain their trust, then maybe you can convince them not to kill you when the time comes." Isaac seemed hopeful.

It had been a long time since I had seen hope in those dead eyes. He had tried for so long to give me hope. But he had never really believed in anything he told me. His encouragement was like a heart and lung machine, like something with no life of its own struggling to keep another body alive. He was like my flotation device in a raging black ocean; to keep my head above the water, Isaac had to drown. He kept sacrificing himself for me. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve his hope.

"If I were in their place, I'd kill me. I'm a monster, Isaac. They won't see me as anything else. I don't see me as anything else. There's no getting around that." I smiled at my brother weakly. But that spark of hope in his eyes continued to burn.

"But there is, Marty," Isaac insisted, "There is! I know how smart you are. Why won't you look? Why won't you see it?"

"See what?" I breathed, achingly. I was tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of dreaming. Tired of living.

"These maniacs are harboring the literal devil's child and you think, given time, they won't see the good in you?" Isaac stared into my eyes, searching for any sign of hope. But I had none left.

"They won't. They won't even try."

"But they can't deny what's right in front of them! They'll see what you show them."

"They'll see what they want to see, Isaac!" I cried. I blinked away tears, gesturing wildly at my own body, "They won't see me; they'll see a blood-thirsty monster. They won't see the helpless little girl from that alleyway; they'll see a threat. They won't see me as their friend; they'll see me as the kid that somehow fooled and lied to them! They'll see what they want to see. And they will hate me for it."

"You don't know that! All you have to do is control yourself. When they find out, you will be your proof. You can show them that you would never hurt anybody; that you are good." Isaac tried to grasp my hands but they passed straight through.

"I won't be able to control myself, not around Jack, not for long." I shook my head

"Why not?" Isaac asked.

"The kid smells like candy, Isaac. All the time. How am I supposed to resist that?" I spread my hands as if to catch an answer and Isaac opened his mouth to reply but he was cut off.

The explosion was silent.

One second, Times Square had been calm- at least as calm as Times Square can be and that is to say bustling, loud, and extremely chaotic.

Then, in a snap, things changed.

The already raucous area was thrown into turmoil as the explosion went off.

It was less of an explosion and more of a concussive wave that blasted everyone and everything outwards from its center at super-sonic speed. As with all explosions, the sight of pedestrians crashing through display windows and slamming into plastic barriers came first. Their movement almost seemed slowed and in those few precious seconds, the explosion seemed silent.

Then the sound came.

It wasn't an echoing boom as one might expect. No, this sound was a vicious, ear-splitting crack. It was a sound loud enough to rival the take-off of a Boeing 7-47. It sliced through the air and through the very being of every person that heard it.

In the moments before the incident, the air had been charged with what felt to most like static electricity, like just before a lightning strike. It was that feeling that makes your hair stand on end. It was the feeling of raw power. That feeling was what caused the eyes of many in the crowd to glance up from their phones just in time to see that inexplicable wave of power. It was that feeling that caused them to stare, motionless at the only thing, the only person, left within the blast radius.

Alone in the epicenter of what most would assume had been a concussion mine, knelt Jack. The cowering boy lifted his head. Later, a witness would tell every person who would listen that they had seen the fiery pits of Hell in that boy's eyes.

Jack was shaking as he rose to his feet. He had just wanted a little space. Not this. He had wanted room to breathe, not shattered glass and broken bones.

He had only thought it for a second.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"What did I do?" Jack whispered. The guilt flooded him, consumed him, choked him like an executioner with unyielding iron hands. his breath caught in his throat as silent tears slipped down his cheeks.

Jack swept his glowing eyes over the carnage he had caused. A mother was holding a tiny child in her arms, begging for her son to wake up. Jack just prayed the little boy wasn't dead. The people of Times Square had started screaming but he hardly heard it now. His gaze fell on a young woman trapped beneath several hundreds of pounds of construction material.

She was coughing and sputtering, shaking and gasping as she stared wide-eyed at the steel rebar jutting out of her stomach. The gray steel was painted a glossy red, like her lipstick which Jack quickly realized wasn't lipstick at all. The awful red-ness dribbled from her mouth as she tried to call for help but no one could hear her. She had been impaled on some scaffolding in front of a store. Jack had done that. He had impaled her.

He had to make it right.

Jack rushed over to the dangerous jumble of collapsed materials. Grasping the edge of a steel plank at the bottom of the pile, he carelessly tossed it- and everything on top of it- aside. The fallen scaffolding should have been impossible to lift but it didn't feel very heavy to Jack as he pushed it away with hardly a thought.

Bile crept up Jack's throat as he watched the young woman's white shirt turn red. It was just a small circle at first but it grew like a parasite and took away the innocent whiteness and replaced it with all that dooming red. The red kept on spreading and when there was no white left to take the blood spilled onto the pavement, pooling around the woman.

Jack wrapped his arms around the woman's torso, cradling her as gently as he could. There was a gruesome sucking noise as Jack lifted the woman up and the twisting rebar was pulled from her flesh. She let out a wet gagging sound as Jack laid her on the ground, her eyes unfocused. She looked like a broken doll, too damaged to even scream.

More blood bubbled from the mangled hole in the woman's stomach; like a morbid fountain, the gushing didn't seem like it would ever end. There was so much blood.

How was there so much blood?

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, earnestly and desperately trying to reassure her, "I'm so sorry!"

The woman hacked up more red as a response.

"It was an accident! I can fix you!" Jack promised.

He placed a hand over the woman's mutilated flesh and focused. The hole stitched its self together and the blood stopped flowing. Gasping, the woman bolted upright and stared at him with wild, panicked eyes.

"It's okay! I fixed you!" Jack said, nodding. The woman didn't speak as her gaze drifted down to Jack's hands. Alarm filled her features and she scrambled away from the boy, her eyes were focused and Jack's gaze followed her own.

His hands were red and glossy. The woman's blood coated his arms to his elbows, it soaked through his shirt and stained his skin. It was thick and the crimson liquid warmed his hands as it dripped off his fingers in fat, shiny, gobs.

"I fixed you."

But that didn't make the blood go away.

"It was warm and wet and I liked it..."

Jack remembered the sound of his father's voice as he had giggled while admitting to having murdered Maggie, Jack's best friend.

"I liked it..."

The voice echoed in his head.

His father had been right, Jack was just like him.

What would Maggie think of him now? Would she ever forgive him?

"JACK!" Castiel's voice called from the crowd.

Jack didn't even look up. He couldn't.

Jack just closed his eyes and flew away.

A crash rang out through the bunker. It came from the library, loud and sudden. I snapped my gaze to Isaac who just shrugged.

"Not it," He said. I rolled my eyes.

"You're already dead. The white-girl-in-a-horror-movie responsibility falls to you," I argued.

"You can't use my current state of un-alive-ness as an excuse for everything!" My brother huffed.

"I can and I will."

Then the screaming started.

It wasn't screaming in the typical sense; no, this was something else. It was pained and it was broken. It sounded not like an exclamation of fright but more like a lament for something lost. It was the sort of scream that builds like a weight in your chest, made of everything you've locked inside, and then it spills over and makes your whole body shake with the effort of getting that horrible weight out. It was the terrible cry of somebody mourning.

The scream came again.

I knew that voice, though I had never heard it so wrought with grief.

Jack.

As soon as the thought came, I was running. I sprinted through the hallways and into the war room, dashing up the stone steps and passing under the archway, I stumbled to a stop in the library.

The place looked like a war zone. Books had been tossed to the ground and papers were scattered everywhere around the room. A table had been flipped, a lamp lay shattered on the ground and several chairs had been jettisoned in every direction surrounding what could only be described as a crash site.

The dark wooden flooring at the center of the library was now the home of two crimson handprints. Two long streaks of the same substance coated the floor, trailing away from the initial handprints and rounding behind a bookshelf's corner. There were flecks, small pools, and a few more handprints decorating the polished wood. One taste of the air told me that the blood staining the floor was human. Thankfully, the blood didn't smell sweet enough to be Jack's but that didn't stop the pang of hunger that washed over me, briefly turning my vision red.

"Marty?"

Isaac was at my side, looking at me worriedly. His posture was tense, ready to react, ready to fight me if I lost control. My eyes were locked on the puddles of blood and, just like in my dream, I couldn't force myself to look away. The hunger twisted my stomach into knots and the pain egged me to simply let go. It would be so much easier to just give in. My feet moved of their own accord, shuffling silently, following the slick red trail. I couldn't see Jack, the screaming had stopped, but I knew he was here. I could hear him breathing from behind one of the low bookshelves.

I could hear the breathing. The breaths were ragged and uneven, they hitched and scratched. Frightened and panicked. I could hear a heartbeat. Thrumming like a quiet drum, beating quick and light. So fast. So scared. Helpless, like a rabbit right before it dies. They're always so scared.

It had been a long time since I'd fed. It had been days. I was good at ignoring it. I was good at saying no.

Why did I keep saying no? Why did I keep starving myself? What was the point again?

There was something important I knew I was forgetting, but I couldn't remember what that was. I felt myself trailing my fingers across the wood as I rounded the corner of the bookshelf the boy was hiding behind.

What was he hiding from? Was it me? It was probably me. I was so hungry. The boy's blood smelled so sweet. It smelled like candy. The blood on the floor was nothing in comparison. I smiled slightly at the boy and took another step forward.

"Marty, don't."

Isaac's voice sounded muffled, faded, far away. I knelt down beside the boy, tucking a strand of hair from his face. His throat was exposed. The skin looked soft. One quick snack couldn't hurt, right?

"Hi there," I whispered. The boy didn't move. I grinned.

"Tina, no!"

A chair flew across the room and crashed into my chest. My head snapped up and I barred my fangs, hissing at Issac. He stared at me with a look of sheer disgust.

I stopped. And I blinked. And I realized what was going on.

I glanced at him and then back to Jack, back to my friend. Just a moment ago I had been ready to take a chunk out of him. I shot up from the floor and backed away.

"S-sorry. I'm so sorry," I gasped, though I wasn't quite sure who I was apologizing to.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I took a deep breath trying to calm my raging, killer instincts. I forced myself to open my eyes, to look at the blood, to smell it, to take it in. I forced myself to look at Jack. I forced myself to kneel down next to him again and I cupped his face in my hands. I looked him in the eyes. His eyes looked empty and far away. Jack probably wasn't even aware of what was going on around him. I could have killed him and he may not have even noticed.

'He's alive.' I reminded myself. 'He's alive and he is going to stay that way. His heart is beating and I am not going to take that away. Jack's life is his, Marty. It's not yours to take.'

I remembered the promise I had made to myself only a few days ago. I had promised myself I wouldn't hurt him, but I had come way too close. How had I allowed myself to think like that? How had let myself come that close to hurting him?

Jack wouldn't have been able to fight back, not in his current state. He had curled his body into a ball, clutching his arms tight to his chest as if he was trying to hold himself together, and he sat wedged into the corner between a bookshelf and a cabinet. He rocked back and forth, quivering and staring at his hands which were drenched with blood. Quiet whimpers escaped his lips every now and again between desperate gasps for air. His eyes were ringed with red and silent tears slipped down his cheeks.

"Jack? You okay?" I asked gently.

He didn't react. He just kept on shaking and staring.

"Marty, I think you broke him," Isaac said, nudging Jack with his foot. Jack didn't even flinch. I glared at my brother for a moment before returning my attention to Jack.

"I didn't break him!" I defended, rolling my eyes as I grabbed Jack by his ankles and dragged him from his little hiding spot. The only reaction he had was shifting into the fetal position on the floor.

"Is he dying?" Isaac asked. "If he dies, I'll say hi to him for you."

"He's fine!" I insisted. Jack blinked and I gestured to him, "See? He blinked!"

"Why do you keep hurting people?" Jack mumbled. Both of our heads whipped around to stare at him, but Jack didn't speak again.

"You might wanna call the flannel freaks..." Isaac said, his voice trailing off as he eyed Jack with concern.

"Yeah..." I nodded absently and dialed the number, keeping my eyes on Jack all the while.

"JACK!" Cas called out as he finally managed to shove his way to the center of the commotion.

The Nephilim knelt on the pavement, staring at blood-covered arms. Then, in a blink, he was gone.

"Where'd he go?" Sam asked, out of breath and emerging from behind Cas. The angel shook his head, worry filling his expression.

"I don't know."

"This is bad. This is really bad," Dean sighed, tugging at his hair and spinning in a circle. There were too many cameras and too many phones, there was no way somebody hadn't caught what had happened on video. Jack's face would be all over the news and the most-wanted lists in less than an hour.

"I'm gonna call him," Sam said, whipping out his phone. Cas shook his head, putting a hand on Sam's arm to stop him.

"It's no use, Sam, I saw him. Jack is in pain. He's not going to answer in his current state."

Cas flicked his eyes over the hoards of people. This was his fault; he should have known Jack wasn't ready for something like this, he should have made Jack stay in the Impala, he should have kept a closer eye on him, he should have-

"Well, then what now?" Sam huffed, interrupting Cas's thoughts.

"We start looking," Dean said, taking control of the situation; taking the lead, as always, "Cas, you call Rowena and tell her there's been a change of plan. Ask for directions to her apartment or whatever and ask to meet her there. Sammy and I are gonna go lookin' for Jack. Got it?"

Cas nodded firmly and turned to go but he hesitated before facing Dean again.

"Dean, if- when you find Jack, just tell him- tell him I-" Cas sighed and shook his head in shame before glancing back to Dean with pleading eyes. "Tell him I'm sorry."

Dean patted his best friend on the shoulder.

"Tell him yourself."

Cas nodded before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Dean watched him go with a sorrowful frown tugging at his lips. He knew Cas would blame himself for losing the kid.

"So where do we start? This city is huge, Jack could be anywhere," The younger Winchester pointed out.

"Yeah, he could be anywhere but Jack wouldn't go just anywhere. I say we start at the car and if he's not there then you can grab your laptop and track the kid's phone," Dean said.

"Okay, let's just hope Jack remembered to charge it," Sam agreed, worrying.

"Sammy, Jack discovered angry birds last week, of course, he remembered to charge his phone!" Dean chuckled.

He turned away from his brother and started shouldering his way through the masses of pedestrians clogging the streets. Typically, Dean would be angry about Jack losing it in the middle of New-York-City in broad daylight, but not this time. Dean was an intimidating figure and he knew it; people usually steered clear of him, they gave him his space. But now, pushing and shoving his way through all these bodies, Dean could understand how Jack had lost it. The people pressed in on him and Dean had to plant his feet just to maintain his ground as they tried to get closer to the commotion, their morbid curiosity encouraged them to stare at those injured by Jack's lapse in control. A mob like this would make any person, who wasn't hardened to their core, lash out in panic. It wasn't Jack's fault that a single thought from him could send people flying.

"Uh... Dean?!" Sam called out. Dean cast a glance over his shoulder to look at his younger brother. Sam was standing on his toes and peering over the heads of the crowd.

"Yeah?" Dean shouted back.

"I think we got a problem!"

Dean opened his mouth to ask what Sam was referring to but he never got the chance.

"EVERYBODY GET ON YOUR KNEES!" A commanding voice blared through the speakers all over Times Square. "THIS IS NYPD! THERE'S BEEN A BOMBING! NOBODY LEAVES TILL WE FIND THE CULPRIT!"

Sam sent his brother a panicked look and Dean cursed under his breath.

"EVERYBODY GET ON YOUR KNEES! THIS IS NYPD!" The voice repeated.

"Dean, we don't have time for this! We have to find Jack now!" Sam stressed.

Squad cars, SWAT trucks, bomb techs, and ambulances started pulling in, blocking off the roads and exits. Sirens wailed as emergency personnel flooded the square, weapons brandished they were shouting for people to kneel and keep their hands above their heads.

"I know!" Dean growled. Reaching back, he tugged the 9mm Browning from his waistband and flicked the safety off. Sam glanced at the gun and back to his brother, his eyes wide.

"Woah, woah! Dean, what are you doing?"

"Listen to me, Sam. I'm gonna get their attention and lead 'em' away. You need to get back to Baby. Now go!" Dean was about to take off but Sam grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait! What about you?!"

"I'll be right behind you! Just get back to the car and if Jack's not there then track his phone and wait for me till I meet you there!" Dean shouted over the crowd, checking his ammo.

"What if you don't come back!?" Sam cried. Dean flashed his brother a cocky grin.

"C'mon, Sammy! I always come back!"

Sam nodded.

"Good luck!"

Dean sent him a mocking salute before turning and raising the pistol over his head.

"Yippiekyay mother-"

The rest of what he was going to say was cut off by the cracking of the three shots he fired into the air.

More screaming erupted from around Dean, and Sam paused for a moment before whirling around and making a breakthrough the crowd. A cop car blocked his way but he leaped into the air and slid over the hood. A police officer shouted after him before firing off a round. Sam gasped as the bullet tore through the material of his jacket but he hardly stumbled as he kept running down the packed city street. The shot may have missed him, but it buried itself in the back of a man passing on his right. The guy cried out before dropping to the ground.

"Civilians! Hold your fire!" A different officer shouted.

"Sorry!" Sam ground out, he didn't stop to help the man as he would have years ago. He had been a different person back then. Now, Sam knew he couldn't protect everyone, this guy was just collateral damage. At least, that's what Sam told himself.

Just before he turned a corner, Sam heard more gunshots. This time they were accompanied by his brother's voice.

"Yeah, that's right! Dean Winchester! Number 4 on America's most wanted! Turns out, I'm not dead! Come and get me!"

Sam shook his head as he rounded the corner and took off down an alleyway. He kept at a sprint, winding through obscure streets, headed in the direction of the Impala. When he got to the parking garage he pulled open the car's door and found it empty. Sliding into the front seat, he locked himself inside and lifted his laptop out from under the seat. Then he got to work.

Meanwhile, Dean was wishing he had Sam's giant legs. His own were pumping as fast as he could make them but it didn't seem to be fast enough.

See, there had been a lot of police officers. Dean had known that firing three rounds in the middle of Times Square would draw attention. He just hadn't been counting on how much attention. When he'd seen Sam take off, Dean had bolted in the opposite direction and the officers had been quick to pursue him, assuming that the guy with the gun had been the guy with the "bomb".

Now, of course, Dean was a hunter. And that meant that he knew how to run. Out of the hunter's happy little family, Dean was the fastest with Jack coming in a close second. (It was truly surprising just how fast that kid could move when milky-way ice cream was being offered.) Sam may have had the longest legs but he couldn't move them with anything close to Dean's swiftness. There had been hunts where Dean had run down vampires. In other words, Dean Winchester was one fast dude.

Most of the cops simply hadn't been able to keep up with him. The rest had tired out. All except one.

The dark-skinned woman barreling after him was as fast as he was. Dean's feet pounded against the concrete and he turned down as many alleyways as he could find but he couldn't seem to shake her off his tail. She was out for blood.

Dean rushed down another tight alley, running straight into a chain-link fence. Finally, this was his chance. He flipped over the fence with the grace of a cheerleader and landed lightly on his feet. Turning around, Dean smirked at the officer on the other side of the fence. She was about as tall as Jack and she wouldn't have been able to reach the top of the fence.

"Sorry, sweetheart!" He called. The woman whipped out her pistol and fired but Dean was quick to dodge. He sent her a wave over his shoulder and took off down the alley. He needed to find his way back to Sam. Silently thanking whoever came up with the idea for Google maps, Dean twisted through downtown Manhattan back towards the Impala. He emerged onto an unfamiliar street and was turning the corner when a sharp pain exploded on the side of his head.

The world swayed and Dean fell to his knees, looking up at his attacker. It was the policewoman and she had hit him with her nightstick. She picked his gun up off the ground where he'd dropped it and stuck the pistol in her waistband.

"Ya gotta be kiddin' me," He groaned, rolling his eyes as she pressed her gun to his head.

"By all rights, you should be unconscious," She said, sounding a little confused.

"Not my first concussion, won't be my last," Dean huffed.

"Thick skull then?" She asked.

"Something like that."

"Makes sense. I'm assuming you've heard the Meranda Rights before?" She said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

"Yup."

"Good. You know the drill; hands up."

Dean sighed but did as he was told. The officer snapped the cuffs onto his wrists and pulled him to his feet.

"Get moving," She demanded, pressing her gun into his back. Dean shrugged and started walking at a comfortable pace.

"So, what's your name?" He asked casually.

"It's Captain," The woman growled.

"Nice name, I'd love to hear the rest of it," He said, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's Bradley. Captain Bradley. And you still have the right to remain silent so I suggest you use it." She jabbed him with her gun to emphasize her point, but Dean wasn't intimidated.

"Well, it's not like I'll be stickin' around here sooo..." He trailed off, sending Captain Bradley a wink. She scowled at him.

"I intend to make sure you stick around for a little while, at least until you're tried for your crimes; hopefully in Texas!" Bradley spat. Dean chuckled.

"Why Texas?" He asked.

"Because the death penalty is valid in Texas," She sneered. Dean's brows shot up and he frowned.

"You got a grudge against me or somethin'?" Dean asked in a challenging tone. His words were met with the barrel of Bradley's pistol jabbing into his back.

"In 2012 you and your brother shot up a diner full of civilians. My momma went in there for some pancakes." Bradley paused, taking a deep breath. "She came out with a chest full of lead."

Dean's heart sank in his chest.

"I-I'm... sorry," He said, regretfully. Captain Bradley chuckled but there was no humor in it.

"Like Hell you are. You're a psychopath, Dean Winchester." She growled. "You're not human. You're not sorry. You don't feel remorse."

Dean stopped walking and turned around. Captain Bradley aimed her gun at his face and he looked straight down the barrel without so much as a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

"You're wrong about me," He said quietly, "I'm sorry for more than you will ever know."

Bradley readjusted her grip on the gun, glaring at Dean with a fire in her soul.

"Even if I believed you, and I don't, sorry doesn't bring my mom back, bastard."

"You're right; it doesn't." Dean nodded. "But it does give me enough time to pick a lock."

Captain Bradley blinked before she realized what Dean meant. Dean held up both his freshly released hands and smirked before throwing a kick at Bradley's side.

She was quick to react and dove to her left, dodging his foot. Dean saw this coming and used her off-set center of gravity to grab her arm. Twisting it behind her back, he latched one end of the handcuffs onto her wrist. Then he swung her around and clasped the other end of the cuffs to a nearby lamp post. She looked from him to her restraints and back again and glared, grinding her teeth together.

"I'm sorry about that too," Dean said as he took his gun back from her and tucked it into his coat pocket. He swiped her pistol from its holster and inspected it briefly before removing all the bullets and tossing it a few feet away.

"You're gonna get what's coming to you, Winchester! One of these days it's all gonna come crashing down!" Bradley shouted, straining at the cuffs. Dean sighed.

"If you only knew."

"Go rot in Hell! You and your brother!"

Dean sighed and glanced back over his shoulder.