I am so sorry this took so long! I thought I could just whip out this chapter because I had it all planned out - but it kept coming out dry and overcooked.
And now I've stared at it so long I can't even see straight - so let me know if you find any major errors, continuity and plot holes, or any general problems.
Previously, on When Our Minds Betray Us (Chapters 24-28):
After Dean confesses he was the one responsible for Sam's memory loss, he calls the voodoo priestess to reverse the spell. The effects of the spell knock Sam out for 24 hours, but when he wakes up, all of his memories are back. Another fight erupts because Sam is upset and Dean knows it, and so Dean buys Sam a ticket back home to Stanford and leaves him at the bus station before taking off for a shapeshifter in Tulsa.
At the station, Sam has plenty of time to calm down and focus on his newly-revealed memories, and he flashes back to the week nearly a year ago when they finally battled the Demon they'd been looking for - a fight that left Dean with a near-fatal wound. A guilt-ridden John fled almost immediately, leaving Sam to take care of his healing brother. But despite Sam's protests, Dean dove straight back into hunting, and tensions between the two brothers only intensified until a desperate Sam made one too many mistakes in a hunt against a goatman and nearly got himself killed. The fight afterwards between the brothers was brutal, ultimately driving Dean to make the decision to erase Sam's memories.
Jumping back to present time, Sam leaves the bus station to research the shapeshifter he knew Dean to be hunting. He calls on their friend Elizabeth to drive him to Tulsa, and once there, he finds Dean locked up in the basement. Sam has to convince Dean he's really Sam, and not the shapeshifter - but before he could succeed, Sam spots the real shapeshifter entering the home of the lady next door. Leaving Dean with a paperclip to unlock himself, Sam rushes out to save the woman.
(Whew)
The instant Sam entered through the unlocked front door, the sound of shouting filled his ears. An argument, coming from upstairs. The house rumbled with the noise, but the voice shouting was too deep for Samto make out any words. As he crept closer to the stairs, his head tilted towards the sounds, he heard Alice shriek in response.
"No! No! I don't believe this!" she screamed. "How-how could you—why? You goddamn bastard!"
By then, now at the bottom of the stairwell, Sam was close enough to hear the other man, whose voice had raised another octave. "Maybe if you weren't so damn fat--" he shouted back at her. "And God, your voice! It's like a screeching cat in heat!"
Sam slowly climbed the staircase, taking one step at a time as he used the railing to cling to the wall, careful to not let the wood creak underneath his foot. He kept his ears trained on the noises above him, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe Alice's husband had come home early, and Sam was really eavesdropping on a private matter. Already he was feeling guilty hearing those sharp insults the man was lobbing at her.
"What? What the hell is wrong with you?" Alice's tone had taken a desperate edge to it, so despairing Sam wanted to lunge right in there to put a stop to it, and at the same time, run far away from the near-stranger's intimate wounds that were suddenly bared before him. "Why are you doing this?" she went on, stuck somewhere between a plea and a demand.
"Because I'm sick of it all! I'm sick of you!" As Sam reached the top of the stairs, he could now pinpoint the voices, which came from behind a closed door at the end of the short hallway. "She was a great lay, Allie."
Sam felt his cheeks burn, just for her sake. From behind the door, he could hear Alice falter, just as shocked by his vicious attack. "W-what?"
"Of course, anyone would be next to a cold fish like you," he spat back at her. "But Cindy…she was good. Hot. God." Sam grimaced, knowing that definitely wasn't something he should have heard. But the more acid the man threw at Alice, the more Sam started to believe he couldn't reallybe her husband. Alice hadn't struck him as someone who'd been emotionally abused, and the man hadn't been there long enough for the argument to have escalated so far. Instead, this guy, this monster, came out swinging.
His resolution slowing firming, Sam crept down the hallway as the man inside ranted on. "And it's not just the sex. She actually makes me laugh, makes me feel like I've never felt before-"
Sam didn't want to be there, he realized sharply. This was his first hunt back - his first real hunt in which he was armed knowing the things he'd known all of his life. Familiar feelings he hadn't felt in over a year coursed through his veins and forced his heart to hammer. All of his knowledge, experiences, training flew at him, condensing into an intense point in the center of his chest. It filled him with anticipation and dread.
"Tom…" By now, Alice's voice had dissolved into almost a whimper, a desperate protest. "I thought—I thought you loved me."
Sam couldn't make out the words in Tom's deep rumbling tone. He carefully leaned his head against the closed door, making sure he didn't accidentally bump it. He needed to judge the situation before he charged in, and he used the sounds of their voices to place their positions as he planned his attack.
"…for a long time now," the man was saying. He seemed to be closer to the door, to Sam, so it should be fairly easy to tackle him. His voice continued, "But I've got another surprise."
"What?" Alice asked, startled, and Sam frowned with alarm, wondering if he should charge in before Tom could pull something.
And then the door in front of Sam flung open, and Sam stumbled inwards from the sudden lack of support. He heard Alice gasp from across the room as he fell to the ground, anda red-haired man bent low over him.
"What's going on?" Alice asked from behind Sam's back, out of sight. Neither man bothered to answer her.
Sam's hand, the one grasping the gun, landed beside his head, and Sam quickly tried to pull it away. But the man stopped him, pressing his foot against Sam's wrist, instantly immobilizing it. Sam tugged at the pressure and rolled towards him so he could use his other arm to pull the man's legs out from under him.
But the man dodged his move, placing a swift kick into Sam's ribs. Sam grunted, his body curling against the pain as the other man reached down and scooped the gun from Sam's helpless fingers. He tucked it into his jeans, so quick and discreetly Sam wondered if Alice would have noticed. Then the man held his free hand out as if to help him up while at the same time, leaning down close to Sam's head.
"Your brother made the same mistake," the man whispered into his ear. "Don't you know you can't sneak up on a psychic?"
Then he grabbed Sam's hand and Sam had no choice to follow as he was hauled to his feet. He managed to choke back a groan as his ribs twinged with pain, but he couldn't stop the grimace that twisted his face.
The other man fixed his grin into Sam's glare. "Hello, Sam," he greeted smugly.
"Sam?" Alice sputtered, recognition flashing across her face. She took a step backwards as her eyebrows furrowed in alarm. "What's going on here? How do you know him?"
"I don't," Sam replied lowly.
"Oh, I know Sam real well," the shapeshifter interjected cheerfully.
Sam gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Alice cried out. "What the hell happened to you? Did you get in a fight?"
And then Sam remembered his nose, throbbing still in the center of his face. He knew it would look mean and bloody, and he doubted explaining that his own brother hit him would help him seem less dangerous. "Look, Alice," he said quickly, holding his hands up before she could grow any more suspicious. "This isn't the man you know."
Alice shot a glare at the redheaded man. "Yeah, no kidding," she said bitterly. Sam shook his head quickly.
"No, I mean, he's not your husband."
The woman looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, he's not my husband?"
"Of course I'm her husband," George added, giving Sam a smirk. As if to demonstrate, he took a step towards Alice. Sam moved closer in a gesture of protection, and at the same time, Alice stepped away from her pseudo-spouse. The three of them formed a triangle, Sam with his back to the door, Alice near the far corner, and the shapeshifter near the side ofa four-poster bed and edging closer to the middle of the room--trying to wedge himself between Sam and Alice.
Sam quickly lunged forward, but George immediately retaliated, swinging his arm up to level the gun at Sam. "Don't. Move."
Alice gasped, one hand flying to her mouth while the other stretched out before her. "Oh, my God," she exclaimed breathlessly. "Where'd you—"
"This little toy is Sam's. He wanted to attack us, dear." Sam's eyes widened and then narrowed angrily and he took a step closer.
"S-Sam...?" Before Sam could respond, George released the safety with a click., ripping a small shriek from Alice. "Oh, God! Please, don't—Tom--"
"He's not Tom," Sam told her. He spared her a glance, trying to convince her with his eyes, hoping she would pick up on his sincerity. He wasn't the one she needed to fear.
But then a flash of movement caught his eye, and that's when he noticed the small mirror hanging on the wall behind her.
He could see himself, could see the tired determination in his own eyes, could see the gray bags that hung underneath them. His nose was swollen and dark, and blood had crusted underneath his nostrils.
But next to his own reflection, instead of a burly, red-haired man in a blue pullover, he saw a skinny man with thinning dark hair, wearing a buttondown shirt with a typical red plaid pattern. Although the Tom in the room was bare-handed, in the mirror, his hands were covered in surgical gloves – to prevent fingerprints, Sam figured.
Dean's words came back to him then--something about a mental projection. This shapeshifter didn't actually change physically, Sam realized, he just changed others' perceptions of him, somehow controlling the image he projected of himself, down to his clothes. But the mirror - just as Sam and Dean had discovered on numerous hunts - reflected his true appearance.
"What are you talking about?" Alice demanded, pulling Sam back from his thoughts. He could tell she was growing frantic as her eyes flicked between Sam and the gun in her husband's hand.
"Look!" Sam told her, nodding at the mirror. "Look at his reflection!"
He could tell she didn't want to, that she didn't believe him, but she twisted her head anyway, her confusion winning over her distrust. And then she gasped out loud.
"What the hell!" she exclaimed, swiveling around to look back at the red-haired man. Then she looked back at the mirror. "But that—Tom—you look like George!" Sam could see her frown in the reflection. "Only bald," she added, her forehead crinkling. "And with a big nose."
She turned back around, looking between Sam and the shapeshifter. "What the hell!"
"Alice, he is George," Sam explained in a hurry. He'd been hoping George would look too, giving Sam the chance to attack, but the man never wavered, and now the fear rose frantically inside Sam knowing how much danger he and Alice were now in. If Sam could force George's attention on himself, if he could stand in his way, maybe that would be enough cover for Alice. "You have to get out of here, you have to call—"
But movement from the shapeshifter cut him off as George suddenly turned the gun on Alice, forcing a choked scream from the woman. "She's not going anywhere," he stated darkly.
"You let her go," Sam demanded, on the verge of rushing forward. But the shifter only smirked defiantly at him, daring Sam to move any further.
Alice spoke up from her corner, slowly straightening from her cowered position. "G-George? Is that really you?" she asked him, her voice shaky and harsh. She pressed herself against the wall, leaning closer to get a better look. Her eyes raked over his features and traveled down to the gun he held in his hand.
"You got me," he replied, his eyes still locked on Sam.
"But—those things you said to me…"
Sam turned to her, a sense of alarm rising inside him as he watched her eyes narrow and she took a defiant step forward. "What kind of freak are you?"
George's response was instant and violent. He lashed out, lunging at her before Sam could react, picking her up by her waist and throwing her against the wall. Her head slammed back against the mirror, instantly cracking it into a spiderweb of pieces and jarring it loose from its hook. It followed her body as she toppled to the ground in a heap, the ornate frame knocking against her head, showering her and the floor with glass shards. She didn't move.
Sam leapt forward to help her, but the gun in George's hand quickly stopped him, waving him back to his original position.
The shifter focused his darkened gaze on Sam. "She's such a bitch," he said. "I can't wait to dip my hands in her blood."
Flashes of St. Louis jumped into Sam's mind, images of women tied to chairs and bled. He'd seen enough crime scene photos, he heard enough details from Becky, he'd come face-to-face with that shifter's own mental sickness – he knew what evil men like George were capable of.
If the gun hadn't been pointed straight at him, Sam would have jumped at him right then. Instead, he was forced to take a deep breath to calm himself. He'd just have to wait until he could catch him off--
"Try it," the shifter taunted. "I'll know of any 'surprise' attack the instant it enters your brain."
George smiled slickly at him and used his free hand to pet the barrel of his gun. Sam knew he was trapped, and George did too, and several long, still moments made it clear he had no intention of moving and changing that. So Sam stood across from him in a rigid stance, not moving except for the heavy breathing that made his nostrils flare. A heavy silence weighed on the air as the two men considered each other.
A heartbeat later, Sam found himself staring into Jessica's blue eyes.
Though outwardly he kept himself from flinching, the sudden change sent him reeling. There was no transformation, no molting, and even though Sam knew he should have suspected that, the suddenness took him off guard. Unlike the St. Louis shifter, George could change his image in an instant, and Sam wasn't prepared.
It didn't help that George chose Jessica. Sam's heart wedged itself somewhere at the base of his throat as he stared at the warm, breathing, three-dimensional woman he'd given his heart to only a few years ago.
The shifter tilted her head, causing her blonde curls to cascade over her right shoulder, the hair sliding away to reveal her pale left one. She blinked up at him with wide, doe eyes.
"Neat trick, huh?" said Jessica's soft voice.
Sam glared at her image, clamping his jaw. "You're not going to get to me."
"I can copy any memory from your mind," the shifter went on, and Sam found himself staring at Jessica's full lips and the way they shaped and caressed each word slipping from her mouth. "Do you remember what I said that night on the rooftop?"
His stomach twisted deep in his gut, and he found himself inadvertently echoing Dean's word's from the basement. "Stop it," he gritted. "I'm not playing."
"You know, I can take any image I want."
Sam realized his hands were shaking, so he gripped them into tight fists. The fake Jessica was still pointing his own gun at him, and that was enough to anchor him in reality. He ignored her eyes and her lips and stared at her .45.
"I can even be dead Jessica."
And then suddenly Jessica was gray. Her blue lips parted slightly, and her eyes darkened. Her white dress turned into a nightgown, revealing long, shapely, ashen limbs, and a bloody gash sliced across her middle. Sam wanted to look away, needed to look away, but he also needed to keep his eye on his enemy. And Jessica, this fake, twisted image of Jessica, was an enemy who could shoot him the moment he averted his gaze.
"You're the only man I've ever loved, Sam." Sam was powerless to block the sound of Jessica's voice as it snaked through his ears. She pressed a pale hand against her abdomen, coating her long fingers in red. "And I died for it."
"You bastard," Sam hissed, unable to take a full breath.
And then Jessica laughed, but it was too deep, too mocking, to be hers.
"I'm going to kill you," Sam told the shifter.
"This is fun," Jessica said. "God, I love this. I love the look on your face, the thoughts running through your head. How about this one?" Sam's head gave an involuntary jerk when the Jessica's shape was replaced with his father's bulk.
John's darker eyes glinted at him. "You know, I usually don't go after guys whose lives are already screwed to hell," he drawled. "But I gotta admit, I'm still getting the same rush."
Sam stared back defiantly. "The thing is, I know you're not real."
"Oh, I'm very real," John replied. "And you know that better than anyone, don't you? Isn't that the problem?"
Sam didn't have a response to that – he didn't need a response, he realized - so he just set his jaw and glared.
The shifter was only taunting him, but that was the frustrating part. Sam's fists had started to ache, shaking from the rush of adrenaline that Sam had no outlet for. Until George moved, until he tried something physical rather than mental, Sam couldn't do anything. He was unarmed, and pinned to place by the gun that never strayed from his chest. Something needed to change.
Where was Dean?
George jumped on that thought the instant it went through Sam's head. "Yeah, where is your brother?" he taunted.
But despite his cocky tone, Sam knew George wouldn't know either. Just as Missouri had told Dean back in Kansas, psychics can't pull information straight out of thin air. Dean could show up any moment. "Or maybe he's still trying to pick the lock," the shifter drawled. "His arms are pretty messed up, don't you think?"
Sam pushed away the doubt George tried to slip into his mind. "Why did you come here anyway?" Sam asked him. "Why did you just leave Dean in your basement?"
"Because I didn't know you'd be here to set him free," he replied, exasperated. His tone became dark, taunting, and he shifted forward as if he had a secret to tell. "Dean was sure he'd never see you again," Sam heard his father say.
Sam flexed his jaw and didn't answer. He's faced a shapeshifter before. He didn't give in then, and he wasn't about to now.
George, though, with his face suddenly twisting in anger, seemed unconcerned with Sam's silence, too caught up by a rant. "Your brother is such a goddamn pain in the ass! You know that?" he exploded. Sam snorted and glared at the same time. Yeah, he knew that. But some people – things – deserved it. "Thinks he's so damn cocky." He is cocky, Sam thought, though he didn't bother to correct him.
Sam kept his expression impassive as a satisfied sneer spread across George's face. "He was ready to die, you know. Maybe he didn't want to, but he was ready for it." Sam thought maybe his face cracked then, but he quickly hardened it back into a glare. "After all, I'm not just some mindless monster or obsessed spirit," George went on, his voice once again bragging. "I'm a shapeshifting, mind-reading person. And Dean, he knew how tricky that would be. I'm a smart guy, Sammy."
"That's debatable," Sam snorted. The retort came easy, and he meant it. The guy had several distinct advantages, but he obviously couldn't be too clever. Three people he framed were cleared of guilt because he messed up. George was sloppy, and Sam only needed to wait for him to mess up.
George's glare darkened at once. "You're not nearly scared enough," he told him snidely.
"I'm not worried," Sam replied, lifting a shoulder.
"Your brother was worried!" George shot back, his voice suddenly rising. The abrupt, careening way he swung his emotions left Sam dizzy. "He was so scared of me he went with a freakin' back-up plan! You know, just in case he didn't make it." Then his lips twisted into a triumphant smirk. "Too bad for him, Fred came back to work a day early."
Before Sam could ask what the other man was talking about, he was suddenly looking at an older, graying man. Fred was a mailman or a post office clerk, judging by the postal uniform he wore. Sam still didn't know what that had to do with anything.
This new, older George slipped his hand into a pocket Sam's eyes claimed wasn't there. But Sam couldn't trust his eyes, not when George could change his entire look down to the clothes he wore. He really wasn't wearing that uniform, Sam told himself, it was only some type of mental glamour tricking Sam into thinking he were.
From the unseen pocket, the shifter pulled out a handful of white and brown. Sam shifted threateningly, but George ignored his useless warning, taking a couple of steps forward towards Sam's side, making sure Sam didn't miss the gun he still held in his hand. Then he tossed the handful on the dresser next to Sam. The objects he threw skidded across the surface.
Careful to keep one eye trained on the shifter, Sam twisted quickly to look at the objects fanned out across the bureau top. Mail, which explained the postal worker look. Two letters and a small, squarish package. They looked harmless, insignificant, and he couldn't figure out why the shifter wanted him to see it.
The back of his mind knew they had something to do with Dean, but the air still escaped his lungs in an abrupt hiss when he recognized Dean's handwriting printed across the fronts.
The first envelope was addressed to their father's P.O. Box, and Sam's breath hitched when he saw his own name on the second one. Dean, who Sam had never seen compose anything, had sent them letters – or tried to, before they were intercepted by George. But the small package, to Sam's surprise, had Elizabeth Stevens' name on it, and Sam didn't see any reason why Dean would be writing to her.
George was all too happy to explain. "He wanted you to know where to find me—you know, after I would've killed him," he added, his voice slick and wet.
Sam turned from the envelopes to glare at the shifter, and George, who seemed to enjoy Sam's anger, cocked his shoulder and smirked at the younger Winchester. "But he couldn't exactly expect either of you to care enough to come, could he?" he pointed out. "So he sent a couple of silver bullets to your friend there, hoping she'd at least try. Kinda pathetic, doncha think? Relying on someone he barely knows, over his own family?" His words slipped through Sam's head, but he refused to acknowledge them.
But he didn't want to see Dean's handwriting anymore, he didn't want to see the image it inspired in his mind, of Dean hunched over a hotel desk, scribbling words he thought could be his last. Keeping one eye on the shifter, Sam slipped the two envelopes and the lumpy package off of the dresser and into his pocket,unwilling to give them up.
As George finished speaking, the smug look on his face suddenly disappeared. His hand shot out and slammed against a tall bedpost with a loud smack, sending a shock straight through Sam's chest. The sudden explosion of movement and noise startled him, and his whole body instantly tensed.
"He thinks he's so damn smart!" George spat. "Goddamn little punk! But he didn't outsmart me, Sam." He shook the gun at him as if it were an index finger. "You can't outsmart a goddamn mindreader. That's just so god-damn stupid! Who the hell does he think he is!"
He palm slammed against the bedpost again, shaking the entire bed frame. "So I have to go dig those out from the post office, waste an entire morning, just because your brother thinks he's so friggin' cute. And then I come home--and Alice here is standing in the kitchen window baking a goddamn cake for her husband!" George twisted his head around to spit at Alice's crumpled form.
"God, how disgusting is that! Like a goddamn Donna Reed! Only, of course Alice makes money too, what with her little writing, because their lives are so sick and perfect." He turned back to Sam, his face strained and burning red. "Every god-damn morning Tom fixes her breakfast before he leaves. And every god-damn day she greets him on the front porch when he comes home."
He turned back to Alice, keeping his arm stretched in the air so the gun was still pointing at Sam. "It's sick!" he screamed at the unconscious woman. "You're 35 years old, not goddamn newlyweds!"
Sam wanted to slug him. His fists twitched, threatening to launch themselves for him. But he knew he couldn't risk getting shot, for his sake and Alice's. George turned to face him again.
"I was going to wait. Let Tom take the fall." The corner of his lip pressed up into his cheek and he squinted his right eye. "But after your brother's cute little stunt, I wanted to see her blood splattered on the walls."
Sam pressed his lips together and choked down a shudder. He'd forgotten just how much evil was out there. He could not let this man out of this room alive.
George continued, his eyes watching, waiting for Sam's reaction. "Lucky for me I have the murderer locked up in my basement."
His words hadn't even sunk in when suddenly Sam was staring at Dean's face. And to his horror, he realized he was seeing the same outfit he saw in the mirror--George's actual clothes. It wasn't until then, seeing it wrapped around Dean's form, that Sam realized why the plaid shirt had looked familiar. The shifter had stolen Dean's clothes.
"He'll be wearing her blood," George said in Dean's voice.
Sam almost lost it. But he knew George wanted a reaction, was digging for it, and he knew he could read it from Sam's mind anyway. So he bit on the curses rising in his throat and forced his fists to relax.
This guy was emotionally unstable, that much was certain. If he wanted any chance of outsmarting the man, Sam couldn't let himself get that way as well. Even as Sam thought those thoughts, he saw George's face twist with anger.
"I thought maybe I'd just let the cops arrest him, but really, that's no fun," George said, quickly cooling his features. "So I think I'll kill him first." He tilted his head and winked. "Self-defense, of course."
"You'll never get the chance," Sam told him in a harsh whisper.
A flicker of anger flashed across George's face again, but then his lips twisted into another smug sneer. "First I'll show him your body," he said. Sam responded with only a tight headshake. Never, he thought. That was never going to happen.
George went on heedlessly, ignoring – or maybe responding to - Sam's denial. "What do you think I should I tell him? That it was his fault, that he ruined your chances for a happy-ever-after because he was too stupid to know his own brother?"
He titled his head forward, his eyes trying to burn a hole into Sam's retinas. "Should I should tell him you died cursing his name?"
Sam stopped the outraged hiss before it could escape his throat. "He'd never believe you," he growled instead.
"C'mon, after what he did to you? I'm pretty sure he will."
Sam shrugged in reply, although the stiff tightness of the movement betrayed the intended effect. His words, however, were steady and confident. "Too bad you'll never get to find out."
"You know, I don't think I'll shoot you in the heart, or your head," George told him. "I don't want this to be a clean kill. I don't want this to be too…quick. I want you to feel it." His voice tried to curl itself around Sam, tried to seduce him into fear. Despite his threat, his aim never faltered, never shifted from Sam's chest. If it had, Sam would have risked agunshot wound just to be rid of this monster.
Sam needed a plan, he needed to do something, he needed--
They both jumped when they heard the front door slam downstairs. Someone had just entered the house.While Sam felt awarm jab of hope and relief, alook of concentration flashed across George's face.
Sam started when George's hand slipped underneath the back of his shirt and came back out holding Dean's Glock He now had a gun in each hand, but before that even registered in Sam's head, George flipped the Glock around and extended it towards him. "Take it."
"The hell?" Sam demanded. He knew the shifter was up to something, and his mind screamed at him to not trust him. But his instincts screamed just as loudly – a gun was a gun, and Sam needed a weapon, whatever George was planning. So Sam swiped the gun from his hand and leapt backwards, immediately aiming the Glock at George's chest and cocking the hammer.
--and then the next thing Sam knew, he was looking into the same set of eyes he saw everyday in the mirror.
Before Sam could react to his double, George started to shout. "Dean! We're up here!" he called out in Sam's voice. "H--"
And then before Sam could do anything, the shifter cried out in pain. Startled, Sam leapt forward, gaping in alarm as George gasped and grunted out loud.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded, his eyes stretched wide.
To his horror, the skin above George's right eye split open, and blood appeared dripping down the side of his face. His nose swelled and darkened, matching Sam's, and a bruise spread across his jaw.
Then, with a grin, his white teeth contrasting with a bloody split lip, George crouched down in front of Alice, keeping his back to her. As Sam watched helplessly, he took on a defensive position, his free arm stretched out beside him as if blocking the woman from harm.
Then the hand holding Sam's .45 relaxed, and Sam's eyes followed tensely as George brought the gun towards himself and then tucked it into the back of his jeans.
"What the hell?" Sam demanded again, his gun following George's new position as a sickening feeling blossomed in his stomach. From the other end of steel barrel, George stared up at him, his eyebrows raised and pushed together, and Sam recognized the puppy dog eyes Dean always complained about. He panted heavily as the blood slid down his temple.
Sam heard Dean's footsteps pound up the stairs as he raced towards them. "Your brother just made a trunk stop," George explained in a smooth whisper that contrasted sharply with his worried expression..
Of course. A trunk stop - which meant Dean would be armed. Sam should have been relieved, but as Dean's footsteps drew near, Sam found himself staring helplessly at the shifter's vulnerable stance and battered face, seeing a copy of his own eyes shine with wounded defiance.
George was unguarded; his gun was tucked away. As taken aback as he was, Sam realized this was his chance to shoot. He had the chance to end this now.
George interrupted just as Sam started to apply pressure to the trigger. "Do you think he'll ask questions?" he asked curiously from his crouched position. "Or is he the type who shoots first?"
Next chapter, coming right up...