When Dean woke a little while later, it was to the soft clicking of keys on Sam's laptop.
"Sammy?" he called out, automatically, needing to make sure it was, indeed, his brother.
"Yeah, Dean. Right here," Sam replied, coming over to sit on the bed. "You all right?"
"Peachy," Dean groused, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake up some more. "What time is it? We ready to go?"
"It's almost six-thirty. I did some more searching. There was some woman claiming to be a gypsy, about five miles from the resort, in Stony Brook. She's even got a website; offers all kinds of love potions, hexes and shit for sale; does tarot card and palm readings, too."
"Okay, so gypsies, witches, the real ones with power, usually use talismans or amulets to store their power, focus it…" Dean mused.
"Do you remember Marcia wearing any jewelry or anything?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head. "No. Not that I was paying much attention." He turned his head toward Sam, then. "Wait. She had an anklet or something. It kept scratching my back that first afternoon." His hands went to his lower back and rubbed the small scabs there.
"It's a possibility," Sam replied, trying not to think of how they were positioned if Marcia's anklet was scratching Dean's back. "We get the anklet, if that's what's holding her power, and destroy it."
"No," Dean countered shaking his head, remembering something, some similar ritual when it came to such things. "We have to reverse it, first. Then destroy it."
Sam nodded grimly. "Lets go."
When they reached the front parlor of the B&B, Mrs. Watkins waved them over. "Boys! I want you to meet my neighbor, Linda Jean," she called. The woman from Dean's earlier vision was sitting on a low sofa next to Mrs. Watkins.
"Boy, you were right, about the eye candy, Emma!" Linda Jean remarked, practically undressing Dean and Sam with her eyes.
Seeing Sam's blush and Dean's smirk, Mrs. Watkins gently slapped Linda Jean on the knee, scolding, "Don't embarrass the paying customers, Linda Jean!"
"We'll be back later," Sam told her and led Dean out the front door.
Sam continued leading Dean over to the car, warning him of the uneven sidewalk pavement along the way, trying not to be overprotective, as hard as that was.
He didn't miss the way Dean touched his car, not just using it to guide him to the passenger door, but gently caressing it, his right hand sliding along its hood. He'd seen his brother treat his car that way before, but now… now it almost seemed as if Dean was saying a final goodbye to his baby.
Sam swallowed hard as he realized that Dean's self confidence in himself, in this whole situation, was gone.
"Dean," he began, leaning his arms on the roof of the car, facing Dean on the opposite side. "Dean, we can do this. Hell," he scoffed, continuing, "if she's been seeing all the shit you've seen, she'll be begging for our help."
"I hope you're right, Sam," Dean replied. "'Cause a couple shotgun shells full of salt ain't gonna work here."
Sam sighed as Dean got into the car. Magic and spells and even exorcisms never were Dean's favorites. He preferred things he could kill with salt, knives and guns. They were physical, tangible, even; easier for Dean to understand. Easier for him to relate to. As impossible as it could be, Sam knew that if Marcia had just out and out pulled Dean's eyeballs out, and stuck them in her own head, Dean, blind as he would have been, would have had no problem finding her and grabbing them right back. It was the magic, the fear of it again being used against him, and possibly Sam, too, that had Dean worried now.
Sam sighed again and got into the car. He looked over at Dean, who was sitting up straight, tense, in the passenger seat. He reached over and put a Metallica tape into the player and cranked up the volume.
The drive was short – only long enough to finish one song on the tape and just start the second. Sam pulled up in front of a newer split-level house, just outside the village limits. Marcia's house was two away from this one, of the same style, part of a mid-Seventies development, if Sam judged correctly.
"So what's the plan?" Dean asked. "I don't think I can cover the back door for you, like normal."
"How about you go to the front and I'll come in the back," Sam replied. "There's a nice, neighborly sidewalk along the road. A walkway leads right up to the front door. I can get you to the start of her walkway and head around from there."
Dean nodded in agreement, but Sam saw the convulsive swallow he took.
"Or, we can just both go to the front door," he amended. "Yeah. Might as well."
"You're running the show," Dean said, giving in, too easily for Sam's liking, not that he would argue at this point.
They sat in the car for another few moments before Sam finally got out. He went to the passenger side of the car and waited for Dean to get out.
"We're two houses down. I see a small Toyota in the driveway to the left of the house. We're in a housing development, with most, including hers, split-level ranches," Sam told Dean. "There're lights on on the upper floor."
"What are you carrying?" Dean asked.
"The Glock," Sam replied. "You got your knife?"
Sam had gotten Dean's switchblade out of his duffle bag earlier and given it to him. He knew that if there was going to be any sort of fighting or self defense needed, Dean would be able to hold his own if it came down to hand to hand stuff, especially with the knife.
Dean patted his hip in response. "Lets do this," he said, extending his left hand.
Sam gently placed Dean's hand on his own right elbow and started walking toward Marcia's house.
When they neared the front door, Sam gently pushed Dean to the side. "I just thought of something. She won't know what I look like. I mean, if she's seeing some of your memories, she might recognize me, but she won't know that it's me… that it was me at the resort."
"I got it, Sammy," Dean replied quietly. "If it's her, do a quick snatch and grab and get in the house with her. I'll follow."
Sam took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, looking anxiously at Dean, who was up against the wall of the house, next to the door, but out of sight from whomever would answer.
He heard footsteps and the door being unlocked. He braced himself, ready to grab Marcia unawares if it was her. Instead, a young teenage boy answered the door.
"Yeah? Can I help you?" he asked.
"Hi, I'm looking for Marcia?" Sam asked, smiling congenially.
"Yeah? Who are you?"
"A friend. Look, is she here?" Sam insisted.
The boy looked Sam over, giving a smirk, before turning and yelling, "Marcia! One of your boyfriends is here!"
Sam heard Marcia yell something back to the teen and then was practically pushed aside as, skateboard in hand, the boy barreled out the door.
A minute later, Marcia came to the door. Sam saw the immediate confusion on her face and acted, shoving his way in, pushing her against the wall and covering her mouth with his hand, quieting her scream.
"You recognize me, Marcia?" he asked quietly, his voice hard. He saw something in her eyes, saw that she had indeed recognized his face, but knew that she didn't know who he was. "Dean? Come on in!" he called to his brother. Then he saw that she knew who he was, maybe even recognized his voice now that it was used in a more gentle tone.
"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," Dean spoke evenly, as he stepped into the house, his stony façade up and running. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."
Sam took his hand off Marcia's mouth, was happy when she didn't start screaming.
"Nothing to say, bitch?" Dean asked, taking out his switchblade.
Fear and indignation made Marcia talk. "I need to see."
"And I don't?" Dean balked.
"You're just a couple of guys, out road-tripping. You don't have careers or responsibilities!" she cried.
"Responsibilities," Dean murmured.
"I'm sorry you had your accident," Sam told her. "But it doesn't give you the right to steal someone else's eyesight; to steal Dean's life."
"I have a life and career in front of me!" Marcia spat back at him, fighting Sam's grip on her. "I'm good! I'm talking National Geographic!"
"Yeah? Well I'm good, too," Dean growled, inching closer, bringing his knife up menacingly.
Wanting to break the tension, Sam asked, "Have you seen any of Dean's memories?" That brought Marcia up short. Sam saw the fear in her eyes. "Those monsters, ghosts…" he trailed.
"So what, he's a movie maker? A special effects guy? Like the world needs any more of that crap!"
"Sammy…" Dean was clearly agitated. The knife flicked around in his hands. He wanted Marcia to know that he knew how to use it, even without his eyesight.
"Easy, Dean," Sam said, calming his brother, momentarily putting a hand on Dean's, stilling the knife's movement. "They aren't special effects, Marcia," Sam told her. "They're real. Real like the magic you used on Dean."
"And most of them are real mean and nasty. Remember on the beach when you asked if we were hunters?" Dean asked.
"Those are the things we hunt. We save lives, Marcia," Sam explained. "Dean saves lives. Or, at least, he did. You've seen the scars. He's risked his life for complete strangers. I think that's a little more important than National Geographic."
Marcia just stood there, shaking her head in denial.
"Did you see the one in the long black robe? The one in the kid's bedroom?" Dean asked. "That was a shtriga. It killed kids, one after another, going through entire towns."
"What happened to you was tragic, Marcia," Sam said, his voice quiet, yet harsh, as he repeated, "but it doesn't give you the right to take someone else's sight. You need to reverse whatever you did."
"The anklet," Dean said. "Is that part of it? Is she wearing it?" he asked.
Sam looked down and saw that Marcia was, indeed, wearing a silver and amethyst anklet. When he met Marcia's eyes, there were tears.
"She told me not to take it off," she whispered.
"Is that all it'll take to reverse the spell?" Sam asked.
"Will doing that give me my sight back?" Dean asked.
"I don't know!" Marcia shouted. "No! I can't be blind! It's not fair!" She struggled in Sam's arms, kicking out.
Dean winced as her foot connected with his arm, forcing him to drop his knife, but he reacted quickly, grabbing her leg. Ignoring kicks to his back from Marcia's other foot, as Sam was busy struggling with her arms and trying to keep her quiet, Dean felt his way down her leg to her ankle, finding the magical piece of jewelry.
No sooner did he rip it off of her, scattering the silver, amethyst and glass beads all over the floor, did he drop to his knees, head in his hands, screaming out in pain.
"Dean!"
