Guys, I can't tell you how excited I am. The other night I was re-watching Supernatural, as you do, and one episode made me have a meltdown because I finally figured out the last bit of Wendy's plot! I knew what I wanted to happen, but I didn't know how to make the connection until I watched this particular episode. I'm so freaking happy! Of course, I can't tell you what episode it is otherwise you'll all figure it out, but I have no one else to gush to—so yeah.
I also want to apologise for taking so long to update this. The world is crazy at the momemt, and honstly I had other things to do and worry about.
I do urge you all to take the time to sign petitions for BLM. Small steps can lead to big changes, and honestly I'm tired of living in a world with people that don't/won't understand basic human rights and kindness.
I love you all so much, and thank you to those that took the time to review the previous chapter.
Chapter Nine
"The first part of madness is believing what you hear. The Second is acting on it."
― Sam Hawksmoor, The Hunting.
Chapter Quote: "What an odd thang t' say."
Wendy watched Dean from the corner of her eye as she stood at the small kitchenet in the hotel room they were sharing. He was hunched over at the rickety dinning table at the other side of the room, skimming through a book; researching for a way out of the mess they'd gotten into before he would glare up at the unsuspecting clock that sat upon the paper thin wall above him. A raspy cough escaped him every time his eyes wandered to the clock, which was repeated every five minutes for the last half hour, but Wendy thought it best not to say anything about it. She understood more than anyone how a small comment about strange habits could make you feel so absurdly self-conscious. Not that she thought of Dean as such, quite the opposite really. He was overly confident and cocky—however, given the circumstances they found themselves in—she didn't think it particularly wise to bring attention to something that would only bring forth more anxiety.
Instead, the witch hummed quietly to herself as she stirred the pot on the stove top. It was full of a dark green liquid that was a concoction of ingredients to help her go and stay asleep during the nights, seeing as she had just recently run out of the helpful draught. Wendy tapped off the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot, the sound jarring Dean out of his glaring contest with the clock. He frowned at her, but soon returned his attention back down to the book he held in his hands.
Dean tried to focus on the words that sat on the pages of the book, but the letters kept dancing and jumbling which only read nonsense or some underwhelming threat that set his heart racing. Squeezing his eyes shut to the point of seeing flashes of bright orange, he willed his body to calm down. Dean looked back down at the book, only to be mocked by the words; 'You gonna' cry?'
Yes . . .
Dean glared back at the book for making him feel weak and scared.
Wendy reached over to the rather large leather pouch on the counter beside her, pulling out a rounded glass jar and opening it to grab a pinch of cardamom. Taking a step away from the stove, she inhaled deeply and held the breath as she threw in the last ingredient.
Bubbling came from the banged and battered pot, growing in sound to the point that Dean had spun away from the book and its insults, to see what the witch was up to. Blondie stood a foot back from the stove swinging her hips one way before swinging them back the other way, her cheeks puffed up and watching her orange coloured skirt rise just a little with the movement. She was completely off her rocker, but all Dean wanted to do was crash tackle her to the ground and away from the ticking time bomb she was cooking up on the stove. Though he couldn't bring himself to do so with the fear having wormed its way into his brain and making it impossible to actually move.
What was she thinking anyway? The goddamn psycho. Doing weird shit like that was completely impractical. Not only that, but she seemed totally unconcerned by the gooey popping atrocity that sat on the stove top.
Finally, the bubbling stopped, and Dean exhaled in relief—feeling his once tense shoulders sag as he leant back in his chair.
Bang!
Dean shrieked, jumped from the chair—sending the table he sat at flying into the wall; causing the clock that hung there to fall and shatter as he dove behind the couch. He coughed roughly on the smell of something overwhelmingly floral, like that perfume that all old ladies seemed to have in their possession and made him feel like he was having an asthma attack. Slowly he rose from his crouched position to peak over the back of the couch, silently wishing that the witch hadn't exploded all over the hotel room because he really didn't think he could cope with seeing that much gore at a time like this.
Plus, cops. What would they say to explain away bits of witch that clung to the ceiling? The answer was nothing. And they'd go to jail. Someone would try to buy him for a packet of cigarettes, he'd have to share a cell with a guy named Gary who had a bum eye and always looked as if he was planning Dean's murder—in all honesty, none of that sounded like a good time.
"'M'sorry, honey." Wendy said sweetly as she turned off the cook top and stirred the sludge with the wooden spoon. Feeling a little guilty for being the cause of his fear as it licked lazily at her walls, as if to say sorry for causing so much trouble—not that she could really blame Dean for the fear. "I didn't think that would spook ya' so much."
"I'm fine." His voice high before he cleared his throat and repeated the words in a lower tone.
Standing, he shuffled a little until he was situated in front of the couch; eyeballing the pot like it would explode.
Don't you dare tell Sammy what just happened.
Wendy opened her mouth to reply to the older sibling, only to realise that he hadn't spoken out loud in the first place. Cutting into his inner monologue as he shot a question her way.
"What's that stuff anyway?"
"Hmm?" Wendy looked back at Dean, pushing a soft wisp of peacefulness over him. "Oh, it's'ah sleepin' draught. Jus' one drop will knock anyone unconscious for forty-eight hours. For me, it helps me sleep for eight."
"Just one drop?"
"For you, yes." Wendy emphasised. "For me, it has t' be tha' whole bottle." She tapped off the spoon on the pots edge before placing it into the sink and held up a small glass vial, de-corked and ready to go, to show Dean. A moment later she retrieved a turkey baster to begin the task of transferring the liquid into the vial and the others scattered across the countertop.
"Gross." Dean wrinkled his nose while Wendy gave the impression of ignoring him. He watched the witch squirt the revolting green mixture into the tiny glass prison before he shivered and looked away. Quickly, he decided to sit on the couch, snatching up the remote from the coffee table as if to drown out the sound of the potion being squirted into the vials. He swallowed down the urge to gag, hitting the volume button repeatedly to stop the noise echoing in his head.
"Tha' consequences t' havin' powers like mine." Wendy spoke softly under her breath, not at all aware that Dean could hear her perfectly or of the strange look he was giving her.
Dean's face suddenly twisted up with the overpowering floral scent that lingered in the room, tickling his nose just so before he unleashed an obnoxiously loud sneeze that made the air vibrate around them.
"Bless ya'." Wendy smiled over at him as he gave yet another thunderous sneeze. "I've gotten so used t' tha' smell now, forgot how strong it is."
"Uh-huh, sure Blondie." Dean grumbled as his eyes watered while trying to fight back an oncoming sneeze and sinking further into the lumpy couch.
Wendy clucked her tongue and walked over to the small fridge, pulled out a bottle of beer, and held it out towards Dean as a way of apologising. "Stop poutin'."
"I don't pout." Dean defended, eyeing the bottle in her hand, watching as she wiggled it in front of his face. He took the offering as he sighed through his nose. "I'm a man, a grown man. I brood." He popped the cap off, tossing it over to the coffee table and took a swig.
"It's called poutin'." Wendy sassed back while continuing on with her task.
Dean opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by Samuel walking in through the room door. The younger brother paused as he stood in the doorway, slowly closing the door behind him, sniffing the air. His eyes squinted as he huffed a few times and sneezed just as loudly as his brother had before.
Samuel groaned with a sniffle and rubbed his eyes before surveying the room. "Everything alright?"
"Oh yeah. Just peachy." Dean gave his brother a sarcastic grin and took another pull from his beer. "Find anything?"
After Dean coughed up chunks of woodchips, the trio decided to investigate the only Lumber Mill in town. This led to Dean not wanting to enter the building, to chugging half a bottle of whiskey and then screaming at the sight of a cat that reminded Wendy so much of Nancy—even though it looked nothing like her beloved familiar—that she had to blink away the tears that misted over her eyes. Being spooked by the cat, however, led to having the eldest sibling bail on both Samuel and Wendy at the sight of a very large Luther Garland that was banished temporarily by Wendy with a wail after he knocked an equally tall Samuel off his feet.
Wendy felt just awful for banishing the spirit of Luther, the poor man was radiating so much pain and fear, causing him more only made Wendy's stomach churn to the point of almost losing the ham sandwich she ate before they left.
But now they stood inside the police station once again, waiting on the Deputy to bring the trio the file on Luther's death as Dean rummaged around in his suit jacket until he pulled out a flask that smelled heavily of more whiskey when he opened it.
"Dean, honey." Wendy began softly, gripping his arm to stop the man from swaying. "Don't'cha' think y' had enough?" to answer her gentle suggestion, Dean stared her dead in the eye and took a long swig from the metal flask before placing it back inside his jacket without saying a word.
The blonde tsked at him lightly, steadying him as he stumbled again. Deputy Linus finally came back from the filing room, his body appearing to jitter over to Samuel who waited patiently at the service desk in front of the pair.
"This is the Garland file." The Deputy handed the thin file over with a nervous smile, eyes shifting down to watch Samuel's hands take the offered object. It wasn't long before his gaze lifted to find Dean swaying and Wendy holding tightly onto his sleeves to stop him from toppling over. "Is he . . . is he drunk?"
Samuel looked back at the pair, giving Wendy a wide-eyed look that basically translated into do something! He turned back to Deputy Linus and simply denied the accusation; his attention quickly being taken by the file he now skimmed through.
"What an odd thang t' say." Wendy commented, stealing the Deputy's attention and sending a charming smile his way that had the young man ducking his head and eyes away from the blonde; a blush rising to his cheeks and tinting the tops of his ears. "He's jus' got that song stuck in his head. Y'know, 'She is tha' dancin' queen . . .'." Wendy trailed off, ignoring the drunken sour look Dean was sending her while she dived into the Deputy's emotions and having him nod along to what Wendy was saying.
"Uh, yeah—yeah! It's . . . it's a real catchy song." Deputy Linus agreed enthusiastically as Wendy drifted away from his emotions and closed the small opening she had created in her shield.
Samuel cleared his throat, clearly amused by the man's nervous flirting. "Deputy. According to this, Luther Garland's death was physical trauma. What does that mean?"
Deputy Linus blinked, startled by the question but decided to answer with a shaky shrug, looking uncomfortable. "The guy died twenty-years ago, before my time. Sorry."
"Then can we talk to the Sheriff?"
"Um," Wendy's head cocked to the side at the Deputy's immediate hesitation. Her eyes bore into him as she watched him physically squirm in front of Samuel. "He's out sick today."
A lie. A soggy lie, like cornflakes that sat too long in a bowl of warm milk.
Samuel turned back to Wendy, raising a brow at the witch. She returned the questioning gesture by tapping the tip of her nose with her pointer finger.
"Well," Wendy winced at the false cheeriness that Samuel forced into his voice. "If you see him, will you have him call us? We're staying at the Bluebird." Samuel stacked the papers back into the file before asking, "Mind if I take this?"
The Deputy gave a shaky nod, watching as Samuel left the station leaving the duo behind. Wendy openly stared at the young Deputy while Dean inspected his right hand. The witch brought the walls that surrounded her mind down completely, to better understand the nervous energy that just so happened to be engulfing the young Deputy—she couldn't help but frown at the feeling of apprehension that surrounded thoughts of the Sheriff.
"Y'know what?" Dean grinned, cutting through Wendy's concentration and pitched forward slightly, only to be held upright by the small blonde beside him. "You're awesome."
Deputy Linus let out a surprised chuckle at the sudden compliment. His eyes flickered over to Wendy who gave the young man a cheery smiled and a thumbs up beside her drunken companion.
"Uh, thanks. Um—you . . . you too, I guess." The poor Deputy managed to stumble out, giving the pair a goofy grin.
"Time t' go!" Wendy announced, ushering an unbalanced Dean out of the station and giving the Deputy a wave as she followed.
Later that afternoon, Samuel had managed to track down Luther Garland's brother, John, at an assisted living complex which hadn't taken all that long, really. Although, what had taken them exactly two hours was sobering Dean enough to be coherent and then trying to calm him down to a reasonable level to leave the relative safety of the hotel room.
"This isn't going to work." Dean muttered frantically, after bumping into an elderly woman who looked at the two brothers in bewilderment. "C'mon, these badges are fake. What if we get busted? We could go to jail!"
"Shh!" Sam hushed him sternly. "Calm down. Deep breath, okay?" The younger sibling repeated what he had seen Wendy do with his brother for the last half-hour. Dean inhaled deeply, staring wide eyed at Sam as he exhaled. "There. You feel better?"
Dean vehemently shook his head. No, he did not feel better. In fact, he felt light-headed and woozy while he felt sweat start to glisten his complexion. He fiddled with the fake badge before stuffing the item into his pocket, not wanting anyone to suspect anything suspicious of him.
"Where's . . . where's Blondie?" Dean mumbled, looking back they way they came, then turned his gaze forward; searching for the blonde curls that had been smoothed into a neat bun.
Sam raised his brows at the question, but answered anyway, "Getting the room number, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. But's it's been awhile . . . you don't think someone's caught her, right?" Dean worried.
"One-oh-four. But tha' nurse said we'd have better luck lookin' in tha' activities room." Wendy chimed in from behind the brothers, only causing one of the two to jump and let out a muffled squeal. "M'sorry, honey. "She directed towards Dean; taking in his frazzled pale appearance—noting the sweat that made his face shine and the bags under his eyes more noticeable, altogether giving him a sickly look.
"D'you think you could calm him down again?" Samuel asked her with a sigh, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face after gesturing towards Dean who stood fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket.
"I'dunno'. The ghost-y-ness is tryin' t' block me." Regardless of this, Wendy grasped Dean's much larger hand and willed the fear and anxiety to morph into a stilted calmness. It took longer then the last time and left the Valkaras feeling drained as perspiration broke out upon her forehead. She swiped the back of her hand across her brow before asking in a breathy voice, "There, better?" Dean nodded and gave a sigh of relief, shooting the blonde a tiny smile. "Don't know how long that'll last, it's gettin' stronger."
"Right, let's get going then. And don't scratch." Samuel reprimanded Dean just as his sibling began to agitate the skin on his forearm. "This way."
Both Dean and Wendy followed after the taller brother, turning a corner and headed down another dingy hallway, and finally happening upon a door that read 'Activity Room'. Wendy never understood why these places were so lack luster. Surely the people who worked here could see that this was no environment to spend the rest of your days in. Why would anyone want to be somewhere so dreary? Of course, this wasn't to say that every assisted living was the same, maybe this place only had limited funding; however surely there was someone who cared enough to change that?
Wendy knew she'd never be able to place her grandmother into any assisted or retirement living. First off, her grandmother would haunt her for the rest of her days. And secondly, after seeing this place—Wendy would be dead before that thought ever crossed her mind. No, her grandmother would pass peacefully in the comfort of her own home—she'd be wearing a pretty purple dress and her white pearls, surrounded by those who loved her; both living and dead. And Wendy will be beside her, holding her hand when Eleanor decided it was time to go.
Not in a place like this, never in a place like this.
The room they found Mr. John Garland in was large and depleting of all colour. A grey wash cast over every surface of the room creating a gloomy tone much like the rest of the building. Wendy could hardly stand the atmosphere being here after only a handful of minutes, and Mr. Garland's own emotions wafting from his position at the back of the room seemed to intensify it all.
What little sunlight there was poured in from the large windows the elderly man sat in front of in an old wheelchair; the cushion of it fraying at the edges with foam spilling from the splits. He stared through the glass at the world beyond the barrier, seemingly not noticing their presence until the trio stood before him.
Samuel cleared his throat, watching as the elder's gaze shifted from the window towards their small group. "Mr. Garland, hi. I'm Agent Tyler. This is Agent Perry and Rosenberg, FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your brother Luther."
Mr. Garland regarded the so-called FBI agents, narrowing his intelligent brown eyes at three before commanding, "Let me see some I.D."
"Certainly." Samuel replied easily and shot Dean a look that very clearly said: calm down you irrational pinecone—or at least something very close to that, thought Wendy, before the older sibling could start to panic.
Wendy handed the older gentleman her fake credentials first, giving him a kind smile that only made his mouth pull down into a frown—she was not at all phased by his grumpy outward appearance. The boys followed suit and Mr. Garland looked over all three painstakingly slowly.
"Those are real, obviously. I mean, who would pretend to be an FBI agent, huh?" Dean blurted, giving an uneasy chuckle after Samuel cleared his throat aggressively, which only made Dean panic and squeak out; "That's just nutty!"
A thump sounded and pain rolled over Wendy far too easily from an ache that started in her foot. She frowned down at the appendage as Dean's pained wheeze cut off abruptly by the dirty look Samuel shot him. The witch pulled at the pain and tugged it away from the older brother, bringing it into her own being and watching from the corner of her eye as Dean frowned and shook his left leg. Slowly, the pain ebbed from her own foot.
The outburst only earnt Dean a blank stare from the old man before he resumed his inspection of their badges.
Being around the siblings weakened Wendy's shields, she realised. Never before had she had to take down and rebuild the walls that surrounded her mind multiple times a day, and on top of that—also having to manipulate emotions that weren't hers. For so long Wendy had always had her walls in place, of course there were days where cracks formed and holes were made for the thoughts and feelings of those around her to worm their way through, which admittedly was happening more often than not nowadays. But it was different now, now she was around people who needed help, who found her powers useful enough to use them to help innocent people. However, before at home, in that small country town—was enough to wreak havoc upon her mind.
Would being with the Winchesters be her undoing?
Was this her path to insanity?
Perhaps, she should've stayed with Bobby. But being cooped up in that house didn't help her mind, and going back to St. Francisville after all this Valtushard business was done with wouldn't keep her sane, would it? It would just be a much slower decent into madness. At least with the brothers she could do some help.
Help until she couldn't anymore.
Wendy shoved the dark thoughts from her mind in time to take her badge Mr. Garland had handed back.
"What do y' want t' know?" The old man clasped his hands together, resting them in his lap as he lent back into his wheelchair.
"Uh, well—according to this, your brother Luther died of physical trauma." Samuel began, placing himself down in a chair opposite the elderly man and shifted through the case file he brought with him. At Mr. Garlands scoff, Samuel met his gaze. "You don't agree."
Dean plonked himself down beside his brother, wincing when the chair scraped across the floor as he shifted closer to the table. He hoped the wooden chair wouldn't collapse beneath him. Fear spiked through him at the thought of having a giant splinter in his ass. Oh god, would he bleed out from that?
Wendy followed suit, situating herself in the empty chair beside Mr. Garland. She watched Dean curiously as he shifted on the chair; already his fear was oozing freely, and she dropped her shields completely to deal with it. Wincing as panicked thoughts bombarded her, Wendy focused her silver eyes on the case file while her mind wrestled with the ghost-sickness and trying to avoid absorbing the fear herself.
"No, I don't." John Garland answered bluntly.
"Then what would you call it?" Samuel fished gently, hands coming together upon the cheap plastic table.
"Don't matter what an old man thinks." Mr. Garland muttered disdainfully, looking down at the abandoned coffee he didn't even begin to drink as a milk film started to form over the once hot beverage.
"Mr. Garland, we're just trying to get the truth on your brother. Please." Samuel stated earnestly. The elderly man sighed heavily, reaching over into the case file and pulling Luther's work I.D. from the pile. He looked at the photo of his brother before he pursed his chapped lips.
"Everybody was scared of Luther." John began in his raspy aged voice. "They called him a monster. He was too big, too mean-lookin'. Jus' too different. Didn't matter he was tha' kindest man I ever knew." His lips twitched upwards before it faded. "Didn't matter he'd never hurt no one. 'Lot of people failed Luther. I was one of 'em." A watery sigh escaped the man as his eyes glossed over with unshed tears. "I was a widower with three young 'uns. An' I told myself there was nothin' I could do."
Guilt radiated from Mr. Garland as he recounted his story. The emotion was best described as one of those old oil heaters; if it was left on too long, you ran the risk of watching your house go up in flames. The same could be said for guilt. Left un-treated and buried would only burn you out and swallow you whole in the end, leaving nothing else but an empty bitter shell that was too angry at the world to move forward.
Wendy sighed softly. She longed to take the guilt from him, but how would that heal him if she just took the problem away? It wouldn't, emotional pain was different from physical—and it seemed that Mr. Garland had let this emotional pain fester inside himself for too long. And this cold dreary place was not helping with that recovery.
The blonde reluctantly pushed aside his guilt, blinking the mist in her eyes away—curtesy of John Garland, and focused solely on Dean's mounting anxiety. This ghost-sickness was starting to become irritating and almost tedious. Continually trying to wrestle with the supernatural flu was beginning to give Wendy a migraine.
"Mr. Garland . . . do you recognise this woman?" Samuel asked, handing over the detailed sketch they had found back at Luther's haunting ground.
The old man hummed, looking over the drawing he held quickly and stated bluntly, "It's Jessie O'Brien. Her man, Frank, killed Luther."
"How do you know that?" Dean interjected as the older man gaze shifted towards him.
"Everybody knows, they jus' don't talk 'bout it." Mr. Garland raised a brow as Wendy focused on the yellow of his words, mind shifting from Dean to John Garland rapidly to acknowledge the truth within them. "Jessi was a receptionist at tha' mill. She was always real nice t' Luther, an' he had a crush on 'er. But Frank didn't like it . . ." Mr. Garland shrugged sadly. "An' when Jessie went missin', well, Frank was sure that Luther had done somethin' t' 'er." A humourless laugh escaped him. "Turns out tha' old gal killed herself, but Frank didn't know that. They found Luther with a chain wrapped 'round his neck. He was dragged up an' down tha' stretch outside tha' plant till he was well past dead."
Wendy swallowed down her nausea, quickly darting from John's mind and trying to rid the image of Luther Garland's shredded and bloody body parts he once had to identify that still haunted Mr. Garland.
"And O'Brien was never arrested?" Dean inquired, looking a little shocked with his brow furrowed. Disgust ran through him and into Wendy. He's thoughts swirling around, one ringing clearer than the others: What the fuck kind of town is this?
"I screamed t' every cop in town. They didn't want t' look at Frank. He was a pillar of tha' community. My brother was jus' tha' town freak."
"You must've hated Frank O'Brien." Samuel concluded, looking over Mr. Garland with obvious sympathy and understanding.
"I did for a long time, but life's too short for hate, son." Mr. Garland gave a small sad smile before continuing. "An' Frank wasn't thinkin' straight. His wife had vanished, he was terrified. A damn shame he had t' put Luther through tha' same, but . . . that's fear. It spreads an' spreads."
"That's mighty big of ya', Mr. Garland. I admire it." Wendy spoke from her place beside the older man, breaking her silence. The witch threw Dean's emotions from herself, hurling her shields back up. He was more irritated and disgusted then fearful at this point and didn't require her help to stop a meltdown just yet.
"Yeah, well . . . didn't learn that lesson until much later."
They soon left Mr. Garland with Wendy promising herself to call into check up on the older man in a couple of days. She didn't like the idea of the man not having any visitors or phone calls, and perhaps John would find some joy from a little chat, though she wouldn't be surprised if he just hung up on her instead.
Both Samuel and Wendy had to rush after Dean, not even getting the chance to properly thank Mr. Garland for his time before the older brother strode quickly out of the room and through the building. He barged through the exit as soon as he saw the sign, yanking the tie off from around his neck and shoving the fabric into his pocket.
Dean inhaled deeply, rubbing at the back of his neck and turned to face his two companions, gesturing towards his arm with the rash that was hidden beneath his suit jacket. "Now we know what these are. Road rash! And I'm guessing Luther swallowed some wood chips when he was being dragged down that road."
Wendy recoiled from the rising panic that worked like a sledgehammer against her fragile shields. And after all the effort to calm him. The witch flinched, a crack forming across weak walls as another wave of hysteria slammed into her. Wendy stared wide eyed at a sweaty Dean as he hurried over to the Impala, eyes shifting around them as if something were going to jump out and tear his head off. Which, given his profession was highly likely; she couldn't deny that.
Though, it wouldn't be the wisest decision to tell him that.
"Makes sense," Samuel responded, loosening his tie as he came to stand on the passenger side of the Impala, leaning against the car and placing the case folder upon it as he did so. "You're experiencing his death in slow motion."
Wendy came over towards Samuel, standing at his side as the pair watched Dean fumble with his keys.
"Yeah well, not slow enough, huh?" Dean said sharply. He leaned towards the pair, eyes wide and wild. "I say we burn some bones and get me healthy."
"Dean, it won't be that easy." Samuel tried to reason, concern flashing in his eyes as he watched his brother again try to unlock the car.
"No, no, it'll be that easy." Dean looked up from what he was doing, eyes shifting between his two companions before settling on Samuel. "Why wouldn't it be that easy?"
"Luther was road-hauled." Samuel began and Wendy winced at his bluntness. "His body was ripped to pieces. He was probably scattered all over that road." Wendy started tugging at Samuel's sleeve while keeping her eyes on the other brother; feeling Dean's rising panic bubble closer to the surface as she tried to get Samuel to stop talking. "There's no way we're gonna' find all the remains. What?" He finally turned to Wendy only to have her frown disapprovingly up at him.
"You're kidding me." Dean drew their attention with a gasp. His breaths coming quickly while Wendy moved around the car, already dropping her shields once again and trying to calm the eldest sibling to avail.
"Look," Samuel began softly as he realised his mistake, "we'll just have to figure something else out."
Wendy took Dean's large hand within her own and squeezed, trying to worm her way into his emotions. She struggled to grip the fear, having it slither away from her whenever she tried to grasp it. The witch's head throbbed, but finally she gripped the tentacle of fear and yanked at it to let go.
This only seemed to anger the spirit of Luther Garland.
Dean ripped his hand out of Wendy's, stepping around her and away from the car. "You know what? Screw this."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dean, c'mon." Samuel followed after his brother, perplexed at the outburst as he cast a glance at Wendy who could only answer him with a helpless shrug.
"No, I mean—come on, Sam. What are we doing?" Dean waved his arms around himself.
"We're hunting a ghost."
"A ghost, exactly!" Dean's voice went up an octave. "Who does that?"
"Us." Came Samuel's deadpanned response. Wendy fought the urge to hurl her shoe at him.
"Us! Right. And that Sam, that is exactly why our lives suck." Dean began vehemently while also looking like he was about to burst into tears. He gestured towards Wendy, "I mean, come on—she's a goddamn witch! What the hell? And—and we hunt monsters!" His voice pitched and cracked before he gave it a shake. "I mean, normal people, they see a monster, and they run. But not us, no, no, no, we—we search out things that want to kill us. Yeah? Huh? Or eat us!" Dean shouted, causing the witch to jump a little at the sudden yell. "You know who does that? Crazy people! We . . . are insane!
You know, and then there's the bad diner food and then the skeevy motel rooms and then the truck-stop waitress with the bizarre rash. I mean, who want's this life, Sam? Blondie? Huh? Seriously?" Wendy glanced over at Samuel in time to see him fight of the smile, but she could feel his amusement at Dean's meltdown.
Stop it! Wendy scolded him with a thought thrown his way, but the younger sibling only met her wide-eyed condemning stare and shrugged.
"Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I don't think so! I mean, I drive too fast. And I listen to the same five albums over and over, and over again, and—and I sing along! I'm annoying, I know that. And you—you're gassy! You eat half a burrito, and you get toxic! And you!" Dean pointed at Wendy, eyes bugging out of his head. "You are weird, saying stuff that doesn't make sense and playing with emotions; they're mine and I'm not sharing them! I mean, you . . . you know what?" He tossed his keys at Samuel. "You can forget it."
"Whoa, Dean. Where are you going?" Samuel took a few steps towards his back-peddling brother, only stopping when Dean raised his arms to warm Samuel away.
"Stay away from me, okay? 'Cause I am done with it." Dean blubbered, hands raking through his hair. I'm done with the monster's and—and—and the hellhounds, the witches, and the ghost sickness, and the damn apocalypse. I'm out. I'm done. Quit."
The remaining two watched as Dean walked away.
"He's not doin' well, darlin'. Should we follow him?" Wendy broke the silence while looking on at a wobbly shrinking Dean.
Samuel sighed, "He's fine, but we'll start looking for something else. I'll call Bobby and see if he could meet us here. Once that's done, we'll go looking from him if he's not back at the hotel."
"Okay." Wendy turned to Samuel and pinched his upper arm.
"Ow!" He cried out, rubbing at his arm and taking a step away from the blonde.
"Why'd y' go an' scare 'im like that?" Wendy demanded of him, rhetorically of course—she already knew he found the whole episode funny. "An' then laughin' at 'im. Darlin', he's not havin' ah good time."
"C'mon, it was a little funny." Samuel chuckled, moving towards the driver's side and gesturing for Wendy to hop in once he unlocked the car. When she narrowed her eyes at him, he just gave her a boyish grin. "You know it was funny."
Wendy caved, smiling a little. "Y' get toxic with burritos, huh?"
"Shut-up." Samuel rolled his eyes at her laughter.
They had called Bobby as soon as they got back to the hotel from refueling the car at the gas station just down the road. Samuel stayed on the phone with the older hunter for about fifteen minutes within the car while Wendy went to inspect their rooms looking for Dean or any sign of him. Giving the rooms a quick once over by dropping her shields, the only emotions she could find that lingered, was stale anxiety from before their visit to Peaceful Pines.
Wendy sighed heavily and left the rooms, locking the door behind her, meeting Samuel back in the car.
"No sign of 'im, darlin'." Wendy informed the younger sibling as she hopped into the first seat of the vehicle.
"Alright, well," Samuel started up the Impala, reversing out of the park space with a look over his shoulder, "let's go look for him."
"Where'd'ya think he'd go?" The witch asked, gazing out the window to see if she could spot Dean anywhere. At this point, she wouldn't be surprised if they came across him flailing his arms above his head and shouting about the dangers of eating burritos.
"Honestly have no clue." Samuel shrugged, his eyes scanning the street. "Usually I'd say a bar or a diner. But you've seen how he's been acting."
"Maybe tha' hospital?"
"Better than nothing."
They spent an hour driving aimlessly around the small town looking for any sign of Dean and where he may have wondered off to. Wendy even went to the extent of having her walls down and rummaging upon whoever's mind they came across looking for Dean. They came up short wherever they went though, to Samuel's frustration. Though, watching Wendy converse casually with a small Pomeranian about the disappearance of his brother while the owner—a small Hispanic man—watched on in utter confusion, quelled most of his irritation at the whole ordeal. They decided that the hospital was their best bet, however there had been no male matching their description seen within the building in the last few hours. But luck seemed to be on their side when the pair came across a homeless man pushing a trolley.
Wendy quickly dipped inside his mind to search for anything Dean related. The homeless man's memory showed Dean running away from a small Maltese dog and shrieking in the direction of the hotel. The man pushed his trolley in the opposite direction, thinking unkind thoughts about Dean as he strolled along, that made Wendy wrinkle her nose at him.
"I'll go an' get somethin' t' eat." Wendy stated as she exited the car. Samuel nodded at her in acknowledgement as they strode towards the hotel entrance. Just before parting ways, Wendy turned to the younger brother and lectured. "Now, when I get back, I better hear nothin' 'bout scarin' your poor brother."
"Yes ma'am." He gave her a very serious nod, though his amusement was clear as day.
"M'serious, darlin'." Wendy glowered up at him.
Samuel raised his hands in surrender. "I promise. No scaring."
Deans phone rang from the coffee table and Wendy rushed to grab the device before Dean could snatch it up.
"Hello, darlin'." The witch greeted as she darted away from Dean who tried to yank the mobile from her hand.
"Hey!" Samuel replied with a huff as Wendy walked around the room a step ahead of a persistent Dean. "So, Dean's gonna' be fine. Just ride it out, we've got a plan."
"An' what's tha' plan?"
"Plan? What plan?" Dean hissed at her as his shoulders became tense.
Wendy hushed him moving behind the couch.
"We're gonna' scare it to death." Samuel mumbled quickly, so fast that she almost didn't catch it.
"What?" She frowned, pausing in her movement, and looking so thoroughly confused by their so-called plan.
"What?" Dean fretted as he walked behind the couch to stand beside her. The witch quickly side-stepped him before he reached her and watched as Dean stumbled over his own feet, almost face planting the stained carpet.
"Darlin', if that's y' plan, don't'cha think it's be wiser t' trade places?" Wendy questioned, once again moving away from Dean as he sulked at her.
"Huh . . ." Samuel paused and let out an awkward chuckle. "Didn't think of that. Look, it's too late now, if this doesn't work, I'll call and get you both out here. Besides, you're the only one who can calm Dean down, it's better if you're with him."
"Well, okie dokie. Call as soon as 'yer finished?" She disconnected just as Dean pried the phone from her grip.
"What'd he say?" He demanded, looking at the mobile as if it betrayed him by letting the blonde hang up before he could reach it.
"That you're gonna' be fine. They have ah plan an' all y' need t' do is ride it out." The witch recited.
"Ride it out?" Dean scoffed. "That's real helpful."
"That's why y' got me. I'm'ma keep ya' calm best I can." Wendy gave Dean a dreamy grin.
"You and I both know that this sickness doesn't like you doing that." He argued, folding his arms across his chest.
"Well, I don't care." Wendy placed a hand on his shoulder and led him over towards the couch, changing the channel to a talk show that didn't seem to be discussing anything violent or scary. "Now, I'll fix ya' ah nice cup of tea. An' you're gonna' relax."
"Fine." Dean agreed petulantly.
Wendy got busy making their tea, and soon enough she had a mug for herself and Dean sitting on the coffee table. Dean went ahead and started blowing softly on the too hot beverage, taking in small slurping sips while Wendy tottered over to the bathroom. The towels they did have were now soggy from being dumped onto the tiled floor by the brothers, carrying a musk due to not being hung up and able to dry out. Whoever had showered last even used her towel. She huffed, suspicious of the sibling who sat sipping at his tea. Wendy came out a moment later, her nose wrinkled.
"Dee, honey. I'm'ma jus' go an' find some more towels. I'll only be ah minute, promise." Wendy tucked a curl back behind her ear.
"I'm not a kid, blondie. I'll be fine." Dean grumped from his place on the worn couch. His brow puckered as he stared down into his mug. He flicked his gaze towards her, watching her put on her cowboy boots with big eyes. "Only minute, right?"
"'Course honey. Shouldn't take long." A dreamy smiled pulled at her lips. Wendy took the keys that hung beside the door and left, but not before locking the door behind her. For Dean's safety, but also the locked door was for his sense of security.
She was gone awhile.
No, that wasn't true.
Dean checked the time on his wristwatch, the numbers telling him that she had only been gone two minutes. Well, that was long enough to find towels, wasn't it? And what happened if he got robbed before she came back? Nah, she locked the door. She did, didn't she?
Dean placed the still hot tea down on the table and rushed over to the door to check. Twisting the doorknob, he smiled when it didn't move. Yeah, see—she locked it. Just to be sure though, he locked the door with the security chain too. It was okay now, he was fine. Dean walked back to his seat and took a mouthful of the liquid.
The faint howl of a dog in the distance gave him pause.
Well, maybe that was just the wind? Or someone was just walking their dog.
Right?
Please, god don't let it be that crazy Maltease that chased him for two blocks.
A low growl sounded to his right, too close to his ear, and he quickly whipped his head around to find the source of the sound—spilling his tea upon the floor in the process. Barking filled the once silent room, echoing in his skull and made his head pound.
The room door rattled, and Dean sagged against the sofa in relief. Blondie was back, and all this—this was all in his head.
However, as the rattling of the door continued, and the barking became shrill—it dawned on Dean even as his vison became wavy and unfocused, that blondie hadn't walked in yet. There wasn't a knock nor did her soft-spoken voice call out to be let back in.
Dean dove off the couch, hiding behind it and watching the door. Too scared to move even with all the adrenaline pumping through his system.
For just a moment, his mind went back to Lilith—to the hellhounds. To the tearing and shredding of his flesh. His body left in tatters.
Finally, the flimsy wooden door bent inward, bursting open to reveal a panting Sheriff Britton.
"Sheriff?" Dean stood, coming towards the man, smiling shakily. It was just the Sheriff. Everything was fine, his imagination was getting away from him. Dean would've laughed at himself if he wasn't so high strung. He managed an amused huff, a smile playing at his lips. Until he sighted the pistol the Sheriff gripped tightly, and Dean took a hasty step back. "What are you doing?"
"Why are you looking into Luther Garland's death?" Sheriff Britton demanded, burning blue eyes feral as he stared down his nose at Dean.
The sheriff twitched his pistol arm, drawing Dean's attention back to the weapon and the blood-soaked arms that held it.
"Hey, hey, you're . . . you're sick. You're sick, alright." Dean spoke more to himself then to the Sheriff, but raised his arms all the same, trying to calm Sheriff Britton from doing anything sudden and showing the road rash that covered his own arms. "Just—just like me, okay? You gotta' relax."
In one large step, the Sheriff was in front of Dean, whacking the young man in the side of the head with his pistol. "Frank O'Brien was my friend!"
Dean couldn't understand the men, his hearing turning fuzzy as the Sheriff shouted at him. He blinked hard, trying to get the room to stop moving as Dean hauled himself to his feet—only to be welcomed by the sight of the gun in his face. On impulse, Dean smacked the gun away with a yelp; shocked when the weapon didn't end up blowing his face off.
His back slammed into the brick wall behind him. The Sheriff bearing down and pinning him to it. Dean pushed back against the assault as best as he could with little room.
A solid punch connected to his abdomen.
And then another and another.
A chocked cough broke away from Dean's mouth as he maneuvered his arm back far enough to land a fist into the Sheriff's side.
Swiftly Dean hit the same spot again, but the Sheriff's grip was firm.
Black eyes met Dean's green.
His heart pumped painfully as demon eyes stared at him and an uncontrollable fear coursed through his body, taking over all rational thought.
With a mighty shove, Dean cleared the Sheriff onto the coffee table, shattering the object.
Shit.
Dean walked over towards Sheriff Britton carefully, as to make sure that the other male wouldn't grab him again. He could only watch as the Sheriff began to hyperventilate, grasping at his chest with eyes squeezed shut.
"Get away from me!"
"Al, you got to calm down!" Dean spoke over the Sheriff's incoherent mumbling.
"Step back!" Sheriff Britton shouted at Dean who tried to edge closer. The older man gasped and tore at his shirt before hacking out a groan, his body falling limply to the floor beneath him.
Dean stood gob smacked by the ordeal, watching his future play out if Sam didn't pull through with his plan, whatever the hell that was. And where the fuck was blondie? She should've been back by now, right? It's been ages. She said she'd only be a minute and now it felt like twenty.
Oh god, and the Sheriff was dead!
How were they going to explain that? They were going to jail. That's it, jail. They're done for.
The sight of the Sheriff's body was making Dean uncomfortable, making him want to hurl and almost upchucking the tea he had drunk beforehand. The milky liquid no longer sitting right in his stomach.
Dean moved into the bedroom, pulling at the sheet that lay on one of the unmade queen beds, ripping it off the mattress in a frantic fashion when the fabric tried to fight him off—finally laying the sheet over the Sheriff's whole body; not wanting to see the frozen face of fear that the old man kept in death.
He'd just wait for Blondie. Or Sam. Whoever came first. He'd stay right here and wait. Couldn't go outside, it was dangerous out there, and in here was safer than out there, even if the Sheriff did just try to kill him.
His eyes slid back to the unmoving body. God, he hoped Sheriff Britton didn't turn into a zombie—he did not need that right now. It was not a good time.
Dean shuffled out of the room, wary eyes darting back to the still body to make sure it remained still. He felt the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees and he plonked his arse down heavily of the hard mattress and waited while scratching ferociously at his arms; watching the red welts there darken. Sam's voice echoed in his head about going back to the rack with the resounding barks repeating in the background.
It was in his mind, all in his mind—while the tick-tock of the clock he broke earlier came back to haunt him. The hallucinations were getting stronger, which did nothing but put Dean more on edge.
He checked his watch again.
Seven minutes.
Seven minutes since Wendy had left in search of towels. He shook his head to clear his bleared vision, only to immediately regret it as the room began to spin.
His gaze dropped to the floor, seeing the small black bible on the ground like a saving grace. Dean snatched the book from the ground, breathing a sigh of relief to know that the book wasn't just a figment of his imagination and eagerly began reading, though not bothering to register the words.
"Hi Dean."
Dean snapped his gaze up towards the lounge room, confused by the words not having their usual southern drawl weaved in—he still expected to see Wendy standing there; she, however, was not.
He cast his eyes to the right and jumped in fright at the sight that greeted him.
He inhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, gripping the bible tight and turned away. "No. No!"
"Yes!" The little girl Lilith once wore as a meat suit grinned, her pale blue eyes locked onto Dean like a predator would prey. "It's me, Lilith!"
Tiny arms wrapped around his torso, causing Dean to flinch before becoming frozen in terror. Heart hammering within his chest while he tried to control his breathing even though it felt like someone had shoved their entire fist down his throat; making it impossible to get a decent gulp of oxygen.
"I missed you so much! It's time to go back now." Lilith gripped tighter, her small nails biting into the sleeve covering his arm.
Dean slunk away from the vision of Lilith with a whimper; shaking his shoulders to try and rid the feel of her tiny arms around him. A vision. That's all she was—a hallucination. Nothing more then that.
"You . . . you are not real!" He hollered more to himself than anything else.
He would not look at the little girl. He would not look at the little girl!
"Dean?" The southern twang called distantly from what seemed like down the hall from their hotel room, but all he could focus on was Lilith and not looking into those dead white eyes.
"Not real, not real." He turned his eyes towards the ceiling, clutching the bible he still held.
"That's not very nice, Dean. You've always been so mean!" Lilith shouted at him, standing from the bed and crossing her arms over her chest; pouting as she did so. "It was fun . . . you loved it, Dean. I know you did."
Against his better judgment, he met Lilith's eyes, finding her already grinning manically at him.
Dean glowered down at the little body the demon stole, a seething retort burning on the tip of his tongue.
His heart squeezed painfully, causing his body to cave inwards to try and lesson the pain. The action only succeeded in making him stumble back, crashing into the wall behind him and sinking to the carpet stained floor below; clenching a fist into his shirt, fingers digging into flesh where his heart lay beneath—as if that would stop the agony he was experiencing.
"Dean!"
Suddenly Blondie was there, kneeling in front of him, towels discarded and with Lilith looming behind her. He tried to tell her, tried to warn her, but the witch only shushed him. Small boned hands reached out and brought his forehead to rest against her own.
It's not real. Her soft southern twang chimed through his skull. She's not her. I'm here—focus on my voice, honey.
"I know you remember. It's there in your head. Four months is like forty years in hell. Like doggy years. And you remember every second." The tightness his chest increased with every sentence Lilith spoke; an agonising groan chocking its way out of his throat.
Calm washed over him—the pain lessoning until it was gone altogether. Dean snapped his eyes open to realise he had closed them. Blondie's eyebrows were close together in concentration, her jaw clenched shut as sweat dribbled from her temple. She breathed in deeply and held the breath; forcing Dean to do the same due to the hold she had on him. He met her pained silver eyes head on that seemed to glow in the low lighting of the hotel room. Dean chalked it up to his current hallucination.
"No!" Lilith stamped her little foot three times on the musky carpet. The little girl smiled; mood shifting instantly and giggled. "You're still gonna' die. You're still gonna' burn."
Don't answer it. It's not real. Look at me an' only me. Breathe out. Dean met the gaze of the witch once again and exhaled the breath he was still holding, loudly. You're doin' great, honey. Now, breathe in an' hold again.
Lilith shrieked, but the sound was merely background noise, muffled by the sound of waves crushing against a rocky shoreline and the smell of a freshly baked apple pie with the burn of Glennlach Single Malt scotch whiskey setting a comfortable burn at the back of his throat. Dean refused to acknowledge the little devil and forced himself to focus on a few of his favourite things the tiny blonde dug out of his head.
And then there was silence.
Wendy dropped her arms at her side, gasping.
Blondie lent back on her knees and inhaled deeply. Rubbing at her face and eyes with shaky hands before pushing her sweat damp curls back from her cheeks and lolling her head back.
Dean took a deep steading breath as he managed to grouse out: "Thanks." The only response he received was a sleepy smile from the witch. He checked over his arms to find them unmarked. So, Sam had figured it out then. He looked back up at Wendy. "You . . . you okay?"
She slumped forward, Dean catching her just barely before she smacked her forehead on his propped-up knee.
Dean immediately checked her pulse. Fine—she was fine. Nothing to worry about. He sighed in relief, gathering her up and stood on shaky legs as he tried to haul her tiny frame over to one of the beds and lay her down. Heavier than she looks, Dean thought.
He made a grab for his mobile just as the generic ringtone filled the room.
Sam.
"Hey." Dean answered.
"Good, you're still alive." Sam joked, chuckling at something Bobby had said in the background that Dean couldn't quite catch.
"Funny." Dean grumped back. He put the phone on speaker, leaving it on the bedside table and began to shovel both his and Sam's clothes into the duffle bags; ignoring the already packed bag of Blondie's that sat on the only chair in the room, mocking him.
"I'll swing around and grab you guys. We'll meet Bobby back here and then take off; sound good?" The sound of a car door closing could be heard on Sam's end.
"Uh, yeah." Dean glanced back over at the Sheriff's lifeless body. "We gotta' problem though. The Sheriff came around here—infected as well. He's dead."
"Shit."
"Yeah." Dean walked into the bathroom and took the two toothbrushes that sat upon the counter. "I'll wipe down everything and we'll book it outta' here." He said as he came back into the room, shoving the toothbrushes into random pockets.
Sam made a sound of acknowledgement before asking, "And Wendy?"
"Uh, yeah she . . . she did something weird. I mean, really fucking weird." Dean glanced back at the still passed out witch. "I was having a heart attack, Sammy. She came and, I dunno'. She just took it away?" He gave a shake of his head at how stupid that sounded.
When Sam didn't answer straight away, he went on.
"I don't know how to describe it! One minute I'm having a heart attack, the next she's putting her hands on my face and poof! Pain gone." He zipped up both duffle bags, throwing them in the corner of the room.
"She's an Empath, Dean." Sam stated it like he was an idiot, like he didn't already know. He knew! Of course, he knew! Dean just didn't think she'd be able to stop a fucking heart attack. It's creepy! "You know you owe her, right?"
"Yeah, yeah." Dean disconnected the call.
"Hello Bobby." Wendy greeted softly as she stepped out of the Impala and floated over towards him. She gave the older hunter a dreamy grin, dimples showing themselves as she did so.
Bobby returned her greeting with a nod, his truck stop hat shading his eyes just enough from the afternoon sun to be able to meet her eyes.
Wendy stood silently beside the old hunter, watching on as the brothers exited the vehicle—bickering about some nonsense. The witch spied a dead crow a few meters away, it lay flat on it's back, wings stretched as far they could go and were so dark against the dry dirty ground that to Wendy, they almost looked like ink splatter.
"Y'ever think 'bout how ya' skeleton's always wet?" Wendy asked, her strange silver eyes didn't look away from the dead crow.
Bobby snorted, lifting a calloused hand to rub at his brow before side eyeing the witch. "I do now . . . how're you feelin'?" He shot the question at Dean when the older sibling was close enough.
"Uh, good. Not too bad." Dean shrugged, digging his hands into his pockets. "How'd you get Luther?"
"We had to scare him." Samuel stated, sitting himself on the bonnet of the Impala and folded his arms.
Wendy idly wondered how the crow received its fate. Did it happen to be sick and fall dead suddenly? Was it diseased? Had it previously injured a wing and fell from the sky, plummeting to the ground? Had another, bigger, stronger bird come across the crow and knocked it from the sky?
Strange.
Perhaps she could acquire a feather from the now deceased bird. A crow feather would be a handy thing to have in her travelling kit. Just one, though. One was enough, she was sure. Any more would be greedy and rude to the poor crow that croaked too soon.
Wendy huffed out a breathy laugh at her thoughts, ignoring the questioning look from Samuel.
The witch would ask the bird before they left. It was only polite, and Wendy was raised with manners.
Dean let out a dry laugh, turning to lean back into the car and pulled out four beer bottles that remained from the stash at the hotel. "So, you guys road-hauled a ghost?"
Wendy zoned back into the conversation, mind veering from the dead crow towards the dead man they had to frighten away. She tsked at the unfortunate treatment of Luther as Dean went to give her a beer. Wendy vigorously shook her head, wrinkling her nose as she did. His mouth pulled down into a frown, but he shrugged and sat himself beside Samuel.
"Iron chains etched with spell work." Samuel answered, tipping his drink towards Bobby before taking a swig of the still cool alcohol.
"Hmm, that a new one." Dean remarked, staring odd into the distance.
"It's'ah clever trick." Wendy praised, bouncing on the balls of her feet and sending the younger brother a dreamy grin.
"It was what he was most afraid of." Samuel explained, a grimace flashing across his face. "It was pretty brutal, though. Most likely would've been easier if Wendy was there. You know, emotional control and all."
"Makin' someone go through fear ain't tha' most pleasant thang. Especially if y' go through it with 'em." Wendy spoke lightly, staring past the brothers and at the old lumber mill that still stood hauntingly behind them. "I hope I'm not so afraid when I die."
A somber mood seemed to cast over their small group.
Dean cleared his throat. "On the upside, I'm still alive, so uh, go team!"
"Yeah." Samuel frowned, the crease between his brows becoming more dominant as he looked at Dean. "How are you feeling, by the way?"
"Fine."
Lies.
Bobby hid his grin with a drink of his cold beverage before asking in a serious manner, "You sure, Dean? 'Cause this line of work can get awful scary."
"I'm fine." Dean rebutted; eyebrows drawn low as his chin lifted. "You want to go hunting? I'll hunt. I'll kill anything."
"Aww," Samuel chuckled. His amusement, along with Bobby's, tickled Wendy enough to get her to grin at their teasing.
"He's adorable." Bobby smirked and fished his keys out of his jacket pocket, turning his attention to Wendy. "I gotta' get outta' here, you wanna' tag along or stay with these two knuckle heads?"
Wendy looked over at the two brothers with questioning eyes. Dean shrugged, taking another swig from the bottle he held and avoided eye contact with the witch altogether; bashfulness wafting off him that only made Wendy want to laugh at the juvenile behavior. But Samuel was the one who grinned openly, friendly and welcoming.
"I think I'll stay."
Bobby nodded and made his way over to his car and hopped in, "You drive safe, ya' hear?"
"Oh, I forgot t' ask!" Wendy hastily followed, bending down to look at him through the driver's window. "Y' haven't heard anythin' from Grams, have ya'?"
"Sorry, kiddo'," Bobby replied, his eyes regarding her sadly. "I've been lookin' into it and leaving her messages, but I ain't got a call back yet. Two more bodies have been found, same way as all the rest—and by the end of this week there'll be another. If I can get ahold of Eleanor, you'll be the first to know."
She felt the sympathy wash over her, but she did nothing to stop it. The witch was far too exhausted to try and block any form of emotion or any thoughts from her mind and body. Wendy couldn't decide if she liked the sympathy or not. Either way, it confirmed that Bobby did care about her feelings on the matter of her grandmother. And that was kind of him.
Wendy hid her disappointment with a dreamy smile. "Thanks Bobby."
The witch stepped back and watched the older man drive off, dust kicking up from the dirt road. She couldn't help but feel a little angry at her grandmother for the radio silence. Since Wendy had left her hometown, the deaths had risen with nothing seemingly trying to end the danger. She knew this wasn't true, of course. Wendy, more than anyone knew how much her grandmother wanted the Valtushard dead. And knowing that this Valtushard was more than likely a seasoned witch with hundreds of years of knowledge backing them, well, it wasn't going to be as simple as casting a locating spell and being rid of them.
She'd just have to find them herself. If Eleanor was struggling to find a lead, then the only option Wendy had was to try and find one herself. Wendy looked back at the conversing brothers. Dean obviously wasn't a fan of witches, but she believed he would jump on board with helping her get rid of a Valtushard if she presented the idea before him. Samuel, she felt, would be easier to talk to about this; perhaps asking him to help her find leads before going to Dean was the best course of action.
"So, uh . . . so, what did you see?" near the end, I mean." Samuel asked as casually as he could, watching on as Wendy wandered back over to them. Her silver eyes looking but not really seeing; a look he came to realise was when she was in her own head.
"Oh, besides a cop beating my ass?" Dean responded in his typical sarcastic fashion.
"Seriously."
Dean paused for a moment. He was reluctant to tell his brother the truth. If he told Sam that he had seen Lilith, then that would lead to questions about why she was there and what was she saying? Then the questions about Dean's time in hell would arise. God, he really didn't want to talk about that. Didn't want Sam to look at him any differently then he already was.
And Dean was allowed a secret to himself, wasn't he? God knows that Sam has kept dozens of secrets from Dean, excluding the whole using his freaky powers and the demon blood.
"Howler monkeys." Dean winced after the words tumbled out. Yeah, that was totally believable. He chanced a glance at Sam. His brother merely stared at him with a brow cocked. Dean sighed, might as well just keeping digging the hole of lies. "Whole roomful of them. Those things creep the hell out of me."
"Right."
"He was shoutin' at 'em not t' throw feces at 'im when I walked back in." Wendy spoke up suddenly, looking past the pair, watching the trees in the distance dance in the breeze. "Poor thang almost defecated himself."
Dean sputtered, chocking on the beer while somehow still managing to look outraged. "I did not!"
"He's embarrassed." Samuel let out a sharp laugh at Wendy's blunt statement as her eyes tracked Dean stomping around to the driver's side, plonking down and angrily slamming the door closed.
Did Samuel buy it? Not at all. He was still suspicious of Dean, even more so now with that piss poor story. But did he find the whole situation funny? Of course, he did—especially as he watched his older brother glare over at the small witch, cheeks flushing a rosy pink with embarrassment that was difficult for even Samuel to get out of him.
"Shut-up and get in the car!" Came the angry and muffled command from inside the Impala.
"I have t' ask tha' dead bird for ah feather first." Wendy informed Samuel, completely oblivious to his baffled expression while she walked over to the crow. She crouched down beside it and began a conversation with the small lifeless creature.
Dean rolled down the window, "Is she talking to a dead bird?"
"Yep." Samuel answered, finishing off the last of his beer.
"Jesus Christ."
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