Chapter 17: And the Truth Will Set You Free

The woods are dark and eerie, shrouding who knows how many dangers with their boughs. Thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing through the trees like the call of some ethereal beast. There is a slight, damp chill that makes the air seem heavy. Even nature seems to be unnerved this night. This scene feels oddly familiar to me, but at first I don't know where from. I start to walk, a loaded shotgun in my hand, and my breath white in the cold, dark air. An ominous feeling courses through me, setting the night chill into my bones. Two figures walk in front of me, also holding shotguns, their identities shrouded by the darkness. I walk faster behind them, until I am close enough to see them clearly. They speak to each other in hushed voices I cannot hear. Though I am unable to hear them, the worry on Dean's face is unmistakable. He turns away from Bobby, continuing through the woods. I follow along, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Without warning, a rapid succession of images flash before my eyes, all things I have seen before. The three of us round the corner of a old Western-style town. Sam walks toward us, injured, but relieved to see us. A stranger stabs Sam in the back and takes off. Dean is in the mud, desperately trying to keep his brother alive. Then, I see something I have never seen before. A shadowy figure is face to face with me, my entire body feels cold in its presence. Its eyes snap open and reveal pale, yellow irises. The feeling I have in its presence screams demon, but I have never heard of a demon with yellow eyes.

"You can't stop it," the demon says to me.

Before I can fully comprehend what I am seeing, the image is gone and I slowly come back to my senses. At first, it is hard for me to remember where I was when the vision started, but in seconds it is extremely clear. People surround me on all sides, standing up and singing a song I would probably recognize if I wasn't so out of it. I am slumped down in a cloth-covered chair, my knuckles white from gripping the sides of the chair so hard. I release the chair and stand up, making my way through an aisle of people before heading for a back exit. A finely dressed man hurriedly opens the door for me after looking at the expression on my face. The heels of my shoes click sharply on the grey tile floor as I head for the nearest bathroom. Thankfully, the bathroom is completely vacant, seeing as everyone is back in the other room. Solitude is what I need most right now. The tan, marble countertop is cool to the touch as I lean forward on it, turning the cold water on in one of the sinks. When the water is ice cold, I splash some on my face and on the back my neck. My hands still shake from the residual anxiety of the vision as I reach for a paper towel to dry my face. Having visions when I am wide awake is still a new occurrence, as is having the same vision more than once. Maybe this really is all connected to that demon. I look in the mirror over the sink, seeing only a scared child staring back at me. That scared child is me a decade ago and she is controlling my adult life.

"No more," I say to myself.

I walk out of the bathroom and head for the main doors of the building, across the circular atrium. I am half way across the circle when I hear a voice behind me.

"Going home early?" a woman's voice asks.

I turn and see a familiar, elderly face heading to the bathroom I just came from.

"Mrs. Grant," I say with a smile. "Yes, ma'am, I don't feel so well. I think I'm going to go home and lie down."

"Well, Lara, dear, don't be such a stranger. We've missed you."

"I won't be," I say.

Mrs. Grant heads into the bathroom with a nod and I walk out to my car.

The day continues uneventfully, no visions, no anything. I spend most of the day sitting around at Mike's, reading lore books on demons, trying to find anything that could possibly help. What I saw this morning still lingers, every time I close my eyes I see those pale yellow eyes staring at me. It is late afternoon before Mike finally returns from the small hunt he started yesterday. He places his shotgun on a table next to the front door, walking straight into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and the sound of rattling glass. I sit the book I am reading on the coffee table and go into the kitchen.

"How did it go?" I ask, leaning against the kitchen wall.

Mike hands me a beer, having already gotten one for himself.

"It went fine, quick job, just as expected," he says.

We move back into the living room and he looks over to the book on the coffee table.

"What are you reading that page turner for?"

I hear something in his voice that I have not heard for years, for nearly a decade.

"It's not-" I start.

"It's not what I think? Is that what you were going to say? A book about demons that we only have in the originalLatin, and it's just an easy read for you?"

"Well, I didn't take those Latin classes for fun."

"Lara, I'm serious. What were you reading this for?"
"This isn't about Eric, trust me. It's about something else."

He looks at me expectantly, so I go on.

"Mike, I had a vision in the middle of church. Wide awake, completely conscious, and this wasn't the first time."

"Wasn't the first time you had a vision when you were awake?"

"That and also not the first time I've had this vision."

I stop there, feeling like I have already said too much. This isn't something I want him to worry over, but I feel like I just made it worse. When he realizes I'm not going to continue, he sits on the couch, motioning for me to sit next to him.

"Lara, I can't help if you won't talk about it. I had to watch Eric go through this vision stuff too. I saw how it weighed on him, constantly. He never spoke to me about them, not enough anyway."

"Mike, I didn't…"

"I know. You were young, Eric didn't want you to worry. Hell, I didn't want you to worry. You two had already been through so much. But, I wish he had talked to me more, maybe it would have helped him deal with the things he saw."

I wring my hands in my lap nervously.

"You're practically guilt-tripping me into telling you, you know?" I say, giving him a half-smile.

"Yeah, but it's working, isn't it?" Mike says, grinning.

It only takes him a second to get serious again.

"What did you see, Lara?"

"Sam Winchester."

"What about him?"

"I saw…"

I hesitate. Saying it out loud just makes it seem too real.

"I think I saw him die, Mike."

We sit on the couch for some time as I tell Mike about the recurring vision I keep having of Sam. Mike listens intently to my words, not interrupting with any thoughts until after I have told him everything. Well, almost everything. To spare him what might turn out to be unnecessary worry, I leave out what Sam and Dean told me about the demon's "special children."

"You haven't told either of them about this?" Mike finally asks, after I am finished.

I look down at the floor and sigh, "No."

"Lara, they need to know."

"What if me telling them is what makes this all happen?" I ask with force. "It's not like that hasn't happened before."

"I know, but this time-"

"How is it any different from what Eric did? That was a mistake he regretted for-for the rest of his life. It's what put that demon on our trail in the first place. His visions got Dad killed, his visions got him killed. Mike, I care about Sam and Dean. I don't want to do that to them. I don't want to be the cause of all of this."

"There's no easy answer here. The decision is up to you, but I think they deserve to know. Sam deserves to know. You said you've been able to prevent your visions from happening before, maybe this is your chance to do it again."

Mike gives me a reassuring smile before getting up.

"I'll be outside if you need me," he says.

Telling Mike about the vision seems to lift some of the weight off of my shoulders, but not nearly enough. In telling him, I have broken my unspoken rule of preventing finality. It would be easier to live with the consequences of my decision, whatever it ends up being, if I am the only one who has to live with them. Keeping the vision to myself also spared me from acknowledging that it might actually happen. I still struggle with the decision for the rest of the day, but somehow breaking my silence makes the decision easier to justify. I grab Mike's book of contacts from the kitchen drawer and flip through it. Among the crossed out names and weathered pages, I find the one person who can help me. After making a quick call, I know exactly where I need to go. I pack up up my duffel bag, throw on my jacket, and walk out of the house. I find Mike in the garage, reorganizing the arsenal in the back of his trunk. I tell him what I am planning to do, my mind set, regardless of what he might say. He doesn't argue, so I don't stick around for him to change his mind. I head off in my Camaro, not giving myself any time to doubt my own decision. It is already dark when I make it to the highway. When I start to feel myself thinking about what I am doing, I turn the radio up in the car, drowning out my thoughts with the music. Despite it still being fairly early in the night, the road is pretty vacant. The occasional semi passes, flooding the road ahead with its lights, but otherwise the road is dark. The lack of light also allows me to focus on something other than the plan I have ahead of me. Constantly trying to pull my attention away from my doubtful thoughts makes the four hours pass quickly. It isn't even midnight before I pull into Lincoln and start looking for the address I have written on a small sticky note.

After a few minutes of driving, I arrive at an old factory. Upon first glance, the place seems completely deserted. In all sense, normal, considering this place looks like it has been abandoned for decades. Just as a slight drizzle starts to fall, I see movement at the far corner of the factory. I reach into my duffle bag and pull my silver knife from it. The movement stops, so I quietly open my door and get out of my car. I stay low, hoping that whatever was moving didn't see me pull up. Glancing over the hood of my car, I look for somewhere else I can move for cover. About thirty feet from the front of my car is a cluster of rusted machinery, partially covered by the overgrown grass. It is just tall enough for me to hide behind without being seen, and is in a better position for me to see the factory. Whatever moved earlier has not moved again, so I quickly move to the cluster of machinery, keeping a tight grip on my knife. The rain starts to pick up as I crouch down behind the rusted metal. The damp, cold air cuts through my jacket, making me wish I'd worn warmer clothes. I look around the side of my cover, trying to see if there is any sign of the figure I saw moving earlier. Nothing. Whatever it was must have moved further into the factory. Just as I am about to move further in, I hear a soft noise behind me. I turn quickly, but not quickly enough. A snarling, ragged man lunges at me, throwing me into the muddy ground. In a split second I realize this is no man. The large, yellow-tinged eyes, long claws and sharp fangs are unmistakable to me: this man is a werewolf. The werewolf snarls again, lunging at me once more. I am able to roll out of the way as he swipes at my face with his sharp claws. The mud below makes me a lot slower than this werewolf, and one of his claws slices into my cheek as I roll away. Despite the terrible footing, I am able to get to my feet before he turns again. This time, as he lunges at me again, I am prepared. At the same time he lunges, I step forward and drive my silver knife into his chest. I pull the knife back out of him and he drops to the ground, dead.

Fearing that there may be more werewolves in the area, I look for somewhere else to move. I settle on a nearby low, concrete wall that is crumbling from years of weathering. If there are other werewolves in the area, they will soon smell the blood of their kin and come to investigate. The wall I am behind is just out of eyeshot of my previous hiding spot, but I can still see the werewolf I took down. It isn't long before I hear footsteps in the mud. It doesn't sound like more than one individual approaching. Keeping my back against the wall, I shift slightly to see a dark-haired woman approaching the cluster of machinery. As she bends down to examine the male werewolf, I catch a glimpse of her hands. Coming from her fingers are the same long, sharpened claws as the man. She is a werewolf too, without question. She sniffs the air, and I move further back, tightening my grip on my knife. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the attack. I step around the wall, prepared for her to lunge at me, only to find that she isn't there. A chill shoots through me, but it hardly has time to sink in before I hear a primal yell come from behind me. With unnatural speed, the female werewolf is on me before I have time to even fully turn around. We both fall into the mud, the werewolf on top of me. My knife flies from my hand, landing feet away in the mud. The werewolf quickly rights herself, easily holding me down with one hand. Her claws dig into the side of my neck as she pushes me further into the ground with her increased strength.

"I'll make you pay for what you did, hunter," she growls. "Slowly."

I helplessly struggle against her, she is far too strong to overpower, but I am able to free one of my arms.

"Not so fast," she says, raising her other arm over her head.

I cry out in pain as she drives the claws of her free arm into my left shoulder, dragging them down over my chest. Her claws rip into my skin like knives, sending white hot pain through me. She grins with delight at my pain, which is just enough of a distraction that she doesn't see me move my other arm. With my right arm, I free my pistol from my belt, firing three silver rounds into her chest before she even knows what hit her. She falls to the side, mud splattering as her body strikes the ground beside me.

It takes me a second to regain the strength to get up, trying my hardest not to aggravate my wounded shoulder. I am soaked and bloody, but I still have a job to finish. The rain finally subsides, still leaving dampness in the cool air. I walk over and pick up my knife from the ground, placing it through one of my belt loops. I carefully take off my jacket and fashion it into a makeshift sling for my left arm. Adrenaline is keeping me from feeling the full effects of my wound right now, but that won't be the case for very long. I hold my .45 in my right hand and head into the factory, keeping my eyes open for any more werewolves. Going to the far corner if the factory, where I first saw the werewolves emerge, I find a partially rusted, metal door. The hinges creak as I push the door open ahead of me. I remain cautious as I move forward, keeping my gun close in case of an attack. The doorway opens up into a wide, bare room that is illuminated by beams of moonlight that stream through where the ceiling has caved in. In the middle of the room there is a single concrete column left standing. Two people are chained to that column, both I recognize easily.

"Lara!?" Sam and Dean both exclaim in shock.

"Hey, guys. Heard you were having werewolf problems," I say, walking toward them.

It only takes a second for their expressions to change from shock to fear.

"Lara, behind you!" Sam yells.

I wheel around and find myself face to face with another werewolf, a much larger werewolf. He grabs my arm and throws me to the ground, my gun sliding out of my hand. The jarring motion makes me wince as the pain in my shoulder escalates. I groan as I try to pull myself up.

"Lara!" I hear Dean yell, the chains rattling.

I grab my silver knife from my belt and get to my knees. The large werewolf overtakes me in a second, but as he reaches out to grab me, I slice into his arm with the knife. He howls in agony, jerking his arm back. I quickly get to my feet and dash for my gun. I hear the werewolf start after me, his steps heavy against the floor. When I am close enough, I throw myself to the floor and grab my gun, quickly rolling over on my back. I point the gun upwards and empty the clip into the werewolf's chest. He staggers backwards and falls, dead. I breathe a sigh of relief, laying flat on my back on the damp floor.

The pain in my left shoulder is worse now, the initial adrenaline having worn off already. I get to my feet and look over to Sam and Dean.

"Are you okay?" Dean calls.

"I'll live."

"The big guy has the key, mind getting it for us?"

"I don't know, what's it worth to you?" I tease, bending down next to the dead werewolf.

I pull the key from his jacket pocket and walk over to Sam and Dean. When I finally get close I see that they are both scuffed up pretty good. I look at all of the cuts and scrapes on them, but don't see any teeth marks. Dean is cut under his eye, and his jaw is bruised. Sam has claw marks around his neck, and a rather large cut over his left eye.

"Come on, we weren't bitten," Dean says. "You don't see any bites, do you?"

"No, but, I mean-" I say with a smile. "I can't be too sure, you are wearing a lot of clothes."

"Nice try, not going to happen. The silver knife will work just fine," Dean says defensively.

Sam laughs.

"Damn. Well, it was worth a shot anyway," I say, grinning at them as I pull out the silver knife.

I touch the blade to both of their hands, and, thankfully, nothing happens.

"See? Now, will you get us out of these damn chains?"

I walk behind them and unlock the padlock on the chains. The chains rattle, falling to the floor in a heap. Sam walks over to me and looks at my face and shoulder.

"You're hurt," he says.

"Yeah, the woman, she clawed me up a bit."

"We heard the gunshots. So did he," Sam says, looking over at the big werewolf.

"We were all wondering what the hell was going on out there, I thought it might have been Bobby. But, what do you know, it was you," Dean says.

"Let's go back to the motel, I can patch you up, and we can talk about all of this when we're warm," Sam says.

We walk out of the factory, Sam and Dean on either side of me. I reach into my pant pocket and pull out my car keys. The noise gets me a sideways glance from Dean.

"How are you going to drive with that shoulder?" he asks.

"I'm not; you are," I say, handing him the keys.

He looks down at them, like he doesn't believe I actually just gave them to him. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the Impala's keys and tosses them to Sam. He points at Sam.

"Don't touch the radio," Dean says sternly.

"Dean, when have I ever-"

Sam stops when he sees Dean glaring at him.

"Jerk," I hear Sam mutter as he walks away.

"Bitch," Dean responds, turning toward the Camaro.

Dean opens the passenger door for me before moving around to the driver's side. The motel isn't far from the factory, only a few miles, but the ride still seems to pass slowly. Every bump in the road feels like a massive pothole, jarring more pain into my injured shoulder. Dean is uncharacteristically quiet, which, for once, is a good thing. The pain is extremely distracting and I have yet to come up with a good reason for showing up without telling him the truth. We pull around the back of the motel, Sam pulling up in the Impala seconds later. Dean helps me out of my car, while Sam pulls a box out of the Impala's trunk.

Once I am situated on one of the beds, Sam sits across from me on the other, the box he pulled from the Impala in hand. Dean sits across the room in one of the armchairs, icing his bruised jaw. Sam opens the box and starts to pull out first-aid supplies. I slowly and carefully remove my makeshift sling from around my arm, tossing the bloody jacket to the floor. I unbutton the first few buttons on my shirt and slide it partially off of my left shoulder and arm. The wound doesn't look nearly as bad as it feels. Three jagged, but defined, gashes run down from the top of my shoulder, stopping a few inches below my collarbone. A good amount of blood is still flowing steadily out of the deeper parts near the top of my shoulder.

"This one is definitely going to leave a scar," I say, trying to lighten the mood.

"You could have been killed," Dean says.

"Yeah, and you two would have been killed if I hadn't shown up. You're welcome, by the way."

"You're probably going to want to take these," Sam says, holding up a bottle of painkillers.

Normally, I would just grab a beer instead, but the pain is starting to get to me. I take a couple of the pills and head into the bathroom to start cleaning off my shoulder.

"So how did you find us?" Sam asks.

"Bobby. He said you two were working a werewolf thing in Nebraska, but he hadn't heard from you in a while. So, he called us, said Mike and I were the closest hunters to you."

"Bobby called you?" Dean asks.

"Well, he called Mike, and I told Mike I'd come. He was heading off on another case."

When I finally wipe off the last of the dirt and blood from my shoulder, the wound itself looks fairly clean.

"Fantastic, this is going to need stitches," I grumble.

"I can help with that," Sam offers.

Dean stands up and trades out the bag of ice for the keys to the Impala.

"You two have fun with that, I'm going to get a burger. Either of you want anything?" he asks.

"Dean, how could you possibly be hungry right now?" Sam asks.

"Maybe because we just spent most of the night tied up by werewolves. Lara?"

"I'll pass, thanks."

Dean heads out and I go back to sitting on the bed across from Sam. It's been awhile since I last needed stitches, but there is no forgetting how much they hurt.

Even though stitching up wounds is a common practice among hunters, I am surprised by how skilled Sam is at it. His hands are steady enough to be those of a doctor, which is making the process hurt a lot less.

"I think you missed your calling as a doctor," I say.

Sam smiles, while still continuing to stitch up my wound.

"Thanks. Actually, I was applying to law school when I got pulled back into hunting."

"Seriously? I would never have pegged you as the lawyer type."

Sam chuckles, "Yeah, I got that a lot."

"Wow. I think being a hunter who got out of the life for a while is an accomplishment in itself."

"I think Dean would disagree. But, I guess being back in the life isn't so bad. He and I have never been closer."

"Yeah, big brothers can be like that sometimes."

Sam continues, skirting the subject of brothers, most likely on my behalf. Though I don't entirely mind talking about my brother, I am grateful for the change in subject.

"What about you?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"What would you be doing if you weren't a hunter?"

The question manages to stump me for a moment. It has been quite a long time since I thought about being anything other than a hunter. Over a decade, in fact.

"I always wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people. But, I barely finished high school. If I hadn't been a year ahead, I wouldn't have finished. Life sort of got in the way after that."

"Well, you're still helping people, at least."

"Yeah, I guess I am. We both are. Just not in the way either of us expected."

"Law school would have been easier."

"So would med school."

We both start laughing at the same time. It just now occurs to me how little I have interacted with Sam. Surprising, considering our similarities. The thought of similarities is exactly the one I wanted to avoid, but I can't any longer. Dean will likely be gone for a little longer, and I have no idea when I'll get the opportunity to be alone with Sam again.

Sam is finishing up my stitches when I can finally bring myself to start the subject I've been avoiding.

"So...I- uh- had another vision earlier today," I blurt out.

Smooth, really smooth. Sam looks up from my shoulder.

"Really? Anything to do with the demon?"

"Maybe. I think I saw a demon, but it didn't look like any demon I've ever seen before. It had-"

"Yellow eyes."

"So that was the demon you and Dean were telling me about?"

"I'm afraid so. That's how we were able to connect all of those cases to the one demon. I mean, how many other demons do you know with yellow eyes?"

"None."

"Exactly."

I start choosing my words very carefully, trying to avoid getting to the hard questions first. Sam finishes the stitches and helps me bandage my shoulder.

"Today was the first time I've ever seen the demon in this vision."

"Wait, you've had the same vision before?"

"Three times, actually, including this past time."

I pull my shirt back over my now stitched and bandaged shoulder, moving slowly as I button my shirt back up again.

"Do you normally get the same vision more than once?"

"No. That's why I'm worried."

"What else did you see?"

There it is. The question of the hour I don't want to answer. There's no going back now, I have to tell him.

"Sam, if I'm going to tell you, I need you to promise me something. When I'm done telling you, and if you understand why I'm making you promise me this, you can't tell Dean."

"Why not?"

"Because I know Dean will stop at nothing to keep this vision from happening, and that is exactly what I'm afraid of."

He looks confused, and I don't blame him. But he seems to understand, and that's all I need.

"Okay, if I agree with you, I promise I won't tell Dean."

"Thank you."

"Now, what did you see?"

I tell him about the ghost town, about Dean, Bobby, and I looking for him, but I stop after I tell him about the mysterious man that stabs him from behind. There is no point in telling him about the part I am least certain of. It seems like false hope, but there is a chance he didn't actually die in my vision.

"Where were we?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"When?"

"I don't know."

Guilt starts to grip me, making me regret my decision.

"Sam, that's why I didn't just call and tell you after I had this vision the first time. I don't know much. I don't even know if this is going to happen. I assume Dean told you about my brother?"

"He did."

"The reason my father died is because my brother tried to prevent a vision from happening. He went out of his way to prevent it, and when he did, he caused it to happen. Who's to say the demon didn't make him have that vision just to mess with him? It could be the same thing with me. That's why it took me this long to decide to tell you. But, either way, you deserve to know."

"I won't tell Dean," he says. "You're right. It seems crazy, but you're right. The demon has messed with me before. I won't let him do it again."

"So, you're not mad?" I ask.

"Mad? No. A little freaked out, yeah. But I'm not mad. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing."

"Thanks," I say, smiling.

"I feel like I should offer you a drink, but-" he starts, smiling.

"I'd rather wake up in the morning, thanks. Besides, I'm pretty tired, I should go get a room."

"If you want, you can just take that bed. There's a cot in the closet and I have no idea when Dean is going to get back anyway."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly-"

"Really, it's no trouble. I mean, if you're okay with it. We were going to head out early anyway, finish off the rest of the werewolf pack. They're hiding a couple towns over."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yeah, really, it's fine."

"Thanks...again."

Despite my initial hesitations about intruding, I am extremely grateful for Sam's offer. He also decides to call it a night, not wanting to wait up for Dean any longer. Even though my shoulder is still throbbing, it doesn't take me long to fall asleep. I don't know how many hours I manage to sleep before I am woken by a low voice.

"Lara…Lara, wake up."

It's Sam. Still groggy, I sit up slowly.

"Wha-Sam, what is it?"

"Dean didn't come back last night," Sam says.

I hear something in his voice, but I am still not completely awake.

"What..."

"Dean didn't come back to the room last night."

Urgency, fear, that's it. Hearing that makes me wake up quickly.

"Did he call?"

"No."

Sam is panicking, which means there is no point in asking if this is normal for Dean.

"Crap."

We gather all of our stuff from the room as quickly as we can.

"I don't understand. The other werewolves couldn't have known that we were here," Sam says.

"You think they took him?"

I feel myself starting to panic ever so slightly.

"I don't know."

Sam heads out of the door and I follow, carrying as much as I can with one arm. We both stop when we see the Impala sitting in the parking lot. I don't know whether to be relieved or even more concerned. Sam walks up to one of the back windows, which has been rolled down. I see that look of utter annoyance cross his face, the one only exasperated siblings know. That look is both relieving and amusing.

"Nevermind. I found him."

Sam hits the hood of the Impala. I hear muffled banging and exclamations come from inside.

"Dude, what the hell!" I hear Dean grumble as he sits up in the Impala's back seat.

"I thought you were just going out for a burger, Dean," Sam says accusingly.

Dean pushes open the door of the Impala and steps out.

"I did. Then I realized I forgot my room key, and when I got back you were already asleep. You're a really heavy sleeper, Sam, that's dangerous."

"So is sleeping in the car all night."

"What else was I supposed to do?"

I smile, watching them bicker brings back memories, good ones at least.

"Sorry to interrupt, but isn't there a pack of werewolves we're supposed to deal with?" I say.

Both of them stop, seeming to have forgotten that I was standing here the whole time.

"We? You nearly got your arm ripped off, there's no way-"

"We could use the backup, Dean."

Hearing Sam come to my defense pushes away some of the fear I had about him being secretly angry with me.

"How is she supposed to be backup? No, you could get hurt...even more than you already are."

"Thanks for the concern, but, last time I checked, I only need one arm to shoot a gun. Seeing as it's my right arm that's still fully functional, I might even be able to avoid shooting one of you by accident."

Dean looks back to Sam, who grins.

"Fine, but you aren't driving," Dean says to me.

"And they say chivalry is dead," I say sarcastically, handing him my keys.

A/N: Thanks if you're still hanging in there with me. Though it was not the sole reason, one reason this chapter took so long to finish is because my hard drive crashed a couple months ago and I had nothing backed up. I lost all of the progress I made on the chapter and had to replace everything on my computer (and I'm still recovering things). Back ups will be my best friend now.