"I'm just sayin' man. I don't like it." Dean reiterated, sticking the pen in his hand between his teeth again as he flipped through the journal. "It's not right – you've been out of it way too long if you can't feel that."
"Oh come on man," Sam grinned, gripping the steering wheel lightly, tapping out the beat to AC/DC's Ride On, "You don't expect me to believe this – a feeling?"
"Yeah, I do – its just like I said – You ask Dad he'll tell you," Dean mumbled, pen in his mouth, raking a hand through his hair.
"It's like – like Spidey sense?" Sam snickered, staring straight down the road, trying desperately not to laugh.
"Shut up Vision-boy." Dean grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning against the open window.
The night streamed past the Impala like a river, liquid thick and weighted down. Leafless trees sped by in a blur, grey and impersonal in the dark.
Dean sighed, and stared out the window in silence. His eyes caught the stars – the cloudless sky hung above them, ancient and unmoving, and he mapped out constellations in his mind – Orion, Cassiopeia's chair, the seven sisters, the dippers.
He could map his life by those stars – the first time he learned them, on the lawn before she died, when his father had been a father, not a commander, when he had been a boy, not a soldier. The next time he learned them with military precision, drilled and tested and drilled again, until he could find his way out of the heart of the darkest forest – so long as it was a clear night.
Maybe that's why he felt a little sad every time he looked at Orion, the Eternal Hunter – why he pitied him, and rued him, and saw himself mirrored in the stars. He was doing it now – hunting when there was no prey, no enemy in the dark.
It was easier to forget about – to not mind – when everything didn't press on him and make him feel claustrophobic.
"Whatever man – maybe I've been doing this too long." He admitted, catching himself as he scanned the trees.
He turned his eyes back to the road.
"Weird." He muttered as they drove past a single discarded high-heeled shoe.
"What?"
"A chick shoe. Just out in the middle of the high-way."
Sam glanced at his brother, arching an eye-brow mischievously, "are your Spidey senses tingling?"
"Shut up."
They drove on, nothing but the radio to break the silence. The road twisted serpent-like around the out-cropping of a hill, the headlights glaring into the dense forest wall that lined the way.
There was movement along the ditch, small, but enough to draw Dean's trained gaze. It was just the last edges of – something – quivering vainly in the wind. "Sam–" Dean tapped his finger against the window, "slow down,"
Craning his neck around, Sam's grinning mouth pulled together, flattening out into a line. A jarring motion from the barely noticeable thing in the ditch drew his eyebrows together as a determined cast settled upon his face. "What is it?"
"Could be a Ghost Hitch-hiker, could be a one-legged dog. I can't see enough to know."
Dean twisted in the passenger seat, leaning over the back and rummaging underneath it for the essentials – a Glock with rock-salt rounds, and a flashlight. "Where are we?"
Sam slowed the Impala to a stop and threw it into park, "About an hour out of St. Petersburg – close to Crestmont."
"College towns both of them – I don't remember either being potential hunting grounds…" Dean mumbled, shoving the Glock into the back of his jeans. "Can't be too sure."
He opened his door, then threw an antagonistic look at Sam, eyes glinting darkly with excitement and a crooked grin, "You comin' or are you gonna keep the seat warm?"
He slammed it shut without a backwards glance as Sam sighed under his breath, climbing out and following Dean as he strode into the ditch.
His gait was confident, but his movements were alert – on guard from the possibility of detection. The sudden quiet, their abandoned car on the roadside – there was a fair chance whatever was out there already knew they were being pursued.
Dean flicked on the flashlight, shining it along the tall grass. Bare white calves paused mid-tread, the dewy grasses tracing along their length in the breeze, as if trapped by the light.
Dragging the beam upward, it illuminated a flimsy black dress that hung askew on the girl that wore it – as if she'd just been released from a compromising embrace. The shoulder strap fell limply across her upper arm, and the back was partially unzipped.
The girl stood crookedly – as if she had only one shoe on. Her hair was short and disheveled, and her pale arms were ribboned with rivulets of red blood that sluiced together dripping between her fingers. She trembled violently.
"Miss?" Sam ventured, leaning to the side to see past Dean as he approached her, closing the few yards distance that stood between them.
She just shook.
"Miss?" Dean moved closer at a smooth, steady pace, as if he was closing in on a wounded animal. Slowly, she craned her head over her shoulder, looking half a wild thing in her stillness, as her hair fell into wide, unblinking eyes – resigned eyes. "Are you –"
She pivoted towards him, the hem of her dress spinning wide as she planted her feet in the grass, the inside of her fore-arms tattooed and bleeding, her left hand clutching a thin knife, the blade black with blood. "I swear I'll kill you!" She shrieked, twisting awkwardly into a knife-fighting stance, her voice raw like she'd been screaming for a long time before this, "I'll kill the fucking lot of you before you take me back there!"
Suddenly she launched herself at Dean, knife straining for his flesh. He reeled backward, using her momentum against her as he planted his foot hard behind him, allowing her to tumble past him, her shoe hampering her movements, making her attack awkward and ineffective.
Angry tears streamed down her face as she caught herself and spun – going for him again, attacking with wild abandon. "You sick fucks! I won't let you get me again!" she cried, slashing out with the knife as Dean grappled with her arms, her other hand shaped like a claw gouging at his face.
"Holy shit," Sam exclaimed under his breath, locking his hands around her waist, trying to pull her from Dean, but she twisted and slid – slippery and hissing wordless curses like an angry cat.
"Sam! Watch out!" Dean shouted as the girl turned in his arms, the knife raised above her head – Sam did the only thing he could think of – he pushed out, his hands connecting squarely with her solar plexus – expelling the air from her lungs and throwing her to the ground – the knife lost somewhere in the tall grass.
"I won't go back. I won't go back. I won't go back," She wheezed, shaking from exertion.
"Dean – no – she could be dangerous," Sam cautioned as Dean knelt beside her, slowly, smoothly.
"I won't hurt you." The timbre of his voice was low and soft, comforting. "I won't hurt you, I promise. Wherever it was that you were, I won't ever let you go back."
She lifted her head up, peering at him under her bangs. Her bottom lip quivered as her scared eyes found his.
"I'm Dean. You can trust me."
He held out his hand, moving slowly so he didn't frighten her more.
Her whole body wracked with sobs as she reached out for his hand, grasping for him like she was drowning. He wreathed an arm around her waist and pulled her to her knees, He smoothed her short hair, whispering incoherent words of comfort to her. It was the most he could do while she clung to him, sobbing.
"oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god," She kept whispering, like a mantra as she fisted her hands into his leather jacket. "its not real…" she sucked in a massive breath, trying to collect herself, "its crazy. Oh my god."
She tittered a little, and then released his jacket, "I don't even know you."
"Well I'm Dean, and he's Sam, and you're safe with us,"
She nodded mechanically, as if she just couldn't process it. "I – I tried to stab you." She mumbled in a daze, "I didn't mean it…well, I did. But I thought you were one of them…" Her body seemed to give a last massive shake, as if the last of her energy had been expended. Her shoulders drooped and her head sagged, her arms coiling about herself to keep her warm.
Up close, she couldn't have been more that 22, if that. Her face was ruined with tear stains and dried blood that had seeped from what he took to be a cut on the scalp, and her lip was split open.
"You're bleeding, Kid. We're gonna take you to a hospital, alright?" Dean told her, forcibly picking her up and setting her on her feet.
"Oow," she sounded as her one heeled foot hit the ground, wobbling for a moment before staying upright.
"We aught to get that shoe off – you've probably sprained your ankle." Dean said, holding her up.
"oh." She breathed, uncomprehending. It took her a moment to understand, but she bent down and undid the buckle as quickly as her quivering hands would allow.
"We good?" Sam questioned concern in his eyes.
"Go start the car – which ways the nearest hospital?"
"I saw a sign for one in St.Petersburg," he answered, climbing up the ditch. "Do you need help with her?"
Dean shook his head no, pressing on with the ruined girl.
"Here," Sam murmured, taking her gently by the hand and setting her in the back seat. "Watch your feet," he added, moving her calves inside the door as she stared out the window, distracted. Lightly, he shut the door, and made his way to the passenger side – Dean already at the wheel.
"I hate cleaning blood out of the seats," He grumbled.
"You were the one with the 'feeling'." Sam retorted buckling his seat belt as Dean spun into gear, turning the car around.
"This is a classic car." He stated, exasperated, as they tore down the road.