Dean screamed. It was the only thing he could do. Marcia, whatever she was, was using magic of some sort to pin him to the bed, unable to move, unable to fight. He was unable to even close his eyes, despite the burning pain in them, despite the fact that it felt as if she were reaching into them with her bare hands, pulling his vision out of them, pulling away the light. He screamed not because of the physical pain, but because he was helpless to stop her.

"You fucking bitch! What the hell are you doing to me!" he spat at her, willing his uncooperative body to move, even an inch, just to get out from under her spell.

"I'm just taking what should be mine. What was taken from me," she said calmly, as if she wasn't the source of his pain, his impending blindness.

Dean was panting, trying to lessen the pain, trying to put up the brave front that was such a big part of him.

"I didn't take it from you," he tried to reason, but only cried out louder, as the pain intensified. "Ah, shit! Sammy!"

Sam returned left the resort's dining room, having eaten his dinner alone, and headed toward the lobby. He thought he'd take another look at the rack of pamphlets and see if there might be something else to entertain them the next day. He smiled at the thought. They came here to the resort to relax and do nothing. But he was already getting antsy, having spent the last few hours alone, reading and watching television.

He'd thought about maybe checking out some eye candy himself, smiled as he realized that his inner voice sounded like Dean when he used that particular phrase, and knew that he wasn't up for that kind of adventure yet. Picking up a brochure for a tour boat, he thought he'd found his diversion.

Walking past the door on the way down the hall to his room, something made him look outside. He saw a newer model Honda driving toward the parking lot exit. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn it was Marcia driving. Shaking the crazy thought from his head, he continued on to their room.

When Dean came to, it wasn't too pleasant an experience. His head throbbed, his eyes ached and he thought he would throw up. Muzzy thoughts brought the word 'hangover' to mind as he rolled over in his bed.

"Oh, shit, Sammy, you should have cut me off," he mumbled, reaching for the bedside lamp.

When he turned the switch and nothing happened, though, a switch of another sort turned in his head and everything came back to him in alarming clarity.

"Fuck!"

His eyes flew open wider, his frightened state thinking that the action would help matters. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate as his shaky hands slowly made their way to his face, to his eyes. He carefully probed the now closed lids, feeling the solid orbs below, silently thanking whatever deity hadn't been protecting him from Marcia that they were at least still there.

He opened them again, blinked his eyes over and over, hoping that maybe something would happen, and was disappointed each time. Each time he saw nothing. Everything was black. He was blind.

The air conditioner motor kicked in then, startling him, and he quickly turned to face it, hands out defensively, then felt stupid when he realized what the noise was.

"Okay, Dean, get a grip," he told himself, calming down his breathing.

It reminded him, though, that he needed to get back into his "normal" mode of thinking. He needed to get himself out of there. He needed to find Sammy. He needed to find that bitch Marcia and get his vision back.

Sudden dizziness and returning nausea made him nearly fall as he rose from the bed. He took a few calming breaths and made his way around to the foot of the bed. He felt around for his clothing, finding his jeans and putting them on. Next, he found his tee shirt and pulled it on over his head, not caring when he realized it was on inside-out. He was about to try to find his way to the door when he realized that he didn't think he'd be able to make it to his and Sammy's room on his own. He fumbled with his jeans pocket until he was able to produce his cell phone.

Another wave of dizziness had him sitting back on the bed. Opening up the phone, he carefully felt the buttons, praying that he'd pushed the right ones, and hit the send button.

"Come on, Sammy, pick up," he whispered.

Sam hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep until his cell phone rang, waking him up. He picked up the phone off the nightstand and blearily read the caller ID.

He flipped open the phone and grumbled, "Dude, it's like… one in the morning."

"Sammy…"

Sam was instantly awake and sitting up now. He knew that tone of voice. Knew that there must be something seriously wrong for Dean to be using it.

"Dean, what's wrong? Where are you?" he asked as he turned on the light and started getting dressed.

"Marcia's room. Three twenty-four."

"Dean? Are you okay? What about Marcia? She okay?" Sam put a handgun into his coat pocket, grabbed the backpack containing some other choice weapons and tools of their trade, and headed for the door.

"Sammy? Sammy we gotta find her."

Sam wasn't sure what to expect when he got to Marcia's room. Dean wouldn't say anything more, wouldn't tell him what was wrong. But his thoughts kept coming back to the woman in the Honda he'd seen in the parking lot after dinner. Part of him kept saying that it couldn't have been Marcia. He'd seen the woman's eyes, when they were at the beach, when she'd taken her sunglasses off in order to put some sunscreen on her face. Thick grayish scars crossed in front of both pupils, effectively blocking out any sort of light. There was no way she could or should be driving a car. But the other part of him, the part of him that partnered with his brother, fighting demons and ghosts and anything of else of the supernatural world, knew differently.

And yet he was still unprepared for what he would find in Marcia's room.

Nearing the room, he took a quick look around the hallway and drew his handgun. He stayed to the side of the door and knocked lightly.

"Dean?" he called quietly. He reached for the door handle. It was unlocked. "Dean, I'm coming in," he announced.

When he opened the door, he entered cautiously, sweeping the room left and right with the gun, making sure there were no bad guys, before slowly approaching the slumped figure sitting on the end of the bed.

"Dean?" he whispered.

Dean raised his head then, and opened his eyes, his eyes covered with thick, grayish scars.

Sam couldn't help but gasp at the sight, his hands reaching up to touch Dean's face, touch his eyelids.

"She took them, Sammy. She took my eyes."