CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Putting the Markem Hell House in his rearview mirror was easy for Dean Winchester, but putting miles between the house and mirror seemed a difficult task. He glanced into the side mirror as the house grew smaller, and suddenly New Mexico was a world away. Seventy-two hours, he told himself over and over. We'll make this trip in seventy-two hours.

Sam snuck peeks at his brother now and again. He'd seen Dean angry, he'd seen him yell and scream, and he'd seen him save lives including Sam's. But he was unsure whether or not he'd seen Dean so involved. Sure, he devoted his entire energy into every case, but there was something just not right about this job. Something off.

"So," Sam started, turning his head to look at Dean. Dean hardly glimpsed at Sam, his right hand readjusting its grip on the steering wheel, his elbow on the door, and his head resting on his fist. He was obviously exhausted. "What's in the box?"

Dean quickly glanced at the box. "Tapes," he said. "I grabbed all the cassettes out of Janelle's room. If she has an … episode, I'll put one on and see if it calms her down."

Sam nodded, knowing Dean was referring to the epileptic seizures that some possessed people went through, which fueled the fires of skeptics everywhere, who claimed possession wasn't real, but that the people were simply suffering from epilepsy.

"Sounds like a plan," Sam lied, pulling the box onto his lap. He smirked after reading the artists on the cassettes. "Did you read these names?" Dean shook his head. "Listen to this … INXS, Mötley Crüe, Metallica, Cinderella, LA Guns, Heart, Nelson …"

"Heart?" Dean questioned. "Let me see that." He snatched the tape from his brother and read the titles of the tracks. "I love that song."

"You like Heart?" Sam wondered, his eyebrows creasing.

Dean's face scrunched in confusion. "What?"

"Well … they didn't have mullets or overdose on heroin."

Dean tossed the tape back into the box. "Shut up," he mumbled. Now that he'd read the name of the song that he'd always found to be quite catchy, it became stuck in his head.

"It was a rainy night," Janelle suddenly began to sing softly as she stroked the bear's head. "When he came into sight. Standin' by the road … with no umbrella, no coat."

Dean turned completely in his seat to look at Janelle, and she glanced up at him, smiling sweetly. The song she sang was the very song stuck in his head.

"What?" Sam asked.

Sirens blared from behind the Impala, and Sam and Dean stared out the back window at the blue and red flashing lights.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, coming to a slow stop on the side of the road.

"I bet Spencer called the cops," Sam suggested.

Dean took a deep breath to calm his anger, fearing he might actually give the cop a what for. He realized he wouldn't have time when two cops jumped out from the squad car with weapons drawn on the Impala.

"Show me your hands!" an officer shouted.

Dean and Sam glanced at each other.

"I think blaming the local fraternity is out of the question," Sam dryly commented.

Dean sighed, leaning forward, and placing his face in his hands against the steering wheel.

"What do we do, Sam?" he quietly asked.

Sam was taken aback by this sudden inquiry; his brother never asked him what should be done on a job. If this was any other case, Dean would have already been out of the car with his hands behind his head, rattling off some bullshit story to keep from going to jail.

"Let me see your hands now!" shouted the officer, who now had three more cop cars as backup.

Sam let out a frustrated breath, turning forward in his seat. He scratched his head, failing at coming up with anything as slick as the normal Dean would have.

"I think we better do what they say," he reluctantly admitted. Sam and Dean shared a concerned look, both knowing there was no way to weasel out of a kidnapping charge. Especially if Janelle …

"No," she said softly but urgently. The brothers spun to face her. "Stay here." She lovingly stroked the bear's head. "They won't shoot with me in the car." She was right, but that didn't make things any better for the Winchesters.

"We can't just sit here, Janelle," Dean grumbled, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white and threatened to pop through the skin.

"Janie," Sam corrected, whispering. Dean looked over to him angrily. "It's Janie … now, anyway."

Dean knew what he meant, but he didn't acknowledge the fact. He just wanted to drive and get the hell out of Ryan's Bluff, Tennessee. Was that really asking too much?

"Make them come to Priscilla," Janelle whispered, her tiny voice emanating pain from Dean's aggression toward her. Or maybe it was fear, Sam couldn't tell. But he did know that he would have to have a little talk with Dean about his anger and his frustration and his hostility toward Janelle, who'd done nothing to him.

"So they can shoot us?" Dean retorted.

"Dean, come on," Sam gently intervened.

Janelle shook her head. "They won't shoot," she said.

Dean rolled his eyes and threw his head back dramatically, slamming his fists against the wheel. Janelle jumped, hugging the bear closer to her body, and Sam's face hardened. He suddenly knew what it was like to be a parent.

"Step out of the vehicle and put your hands in the air!" an officer shouted.

"All right, let's do it," Dean finally decided.

Sam opened his mouth to object as he glanced back at Janelle, who shook her head, gazing up at him with heartbreakingly sad eyes. "Dean …" he started.

"Get out of the car!" Dean commanded, glaring at his brother. Sam's mouth again opened for protest, but Dean cut him off, "Get out of the car!"

Sam inhaled deeply through his nostrils, turning back to Janelle. "We'll be right back, Janie," he said gently. "Don't move."

Janelle nodded, staring down at the floorboards.

Sam and Dean extended their hands out the windows and opened the doors from the outside. Following instruction, their hands locked behind their heads and they walked very slowly to the back of the car leaving the doors opened.

"Down on your knees!" the cops yelled simultaneously.

The brothers complied, descending to their knees on the hard pavement, and then another car door opened with the sound of crunching metal.

"Janelle!" the cop directly in front of Sam and Dean called.

No wonder they were so adamant about saving her; they knew her personally. Dean mentally kicked himself in the ass for not realizing that everybody in town was on a first-name basis with everybody else in town. He rolled his eyes again, his head lulling from side to side.

"Sammy and Dean aren't in trouble," Janelle declared, walking toward them. She stepped between the brothers, placing her hands on their bent elbows. "They didn't do anything wrong, sheriff."

Dean scowled at the sheriff, Sam didn't make eye contact.

"Janelle, we got a call from your daddy sayin' that you was kidnapped by two men in a black Impala."

Sam cleared his throat to keep from laughing; the sheriff, of course, had to possess a thick Southern accent and sound like he was schooled only three years of his life.

"Daddy's got it all wrong," Janelle continued, her fingers playing on the brothers' arms.

Dean gulped, wishing like hell he'd put on a long-sleeved shirt so that her soft fingers wouldn't send tingles throughout his body.

"You're not in trouble?" the sheriff inquired, lowering his weapon, which had been trained on Dean since he'd stepped out of Priscilla.

Janelle smiled sweetly, shaking her head. "Never was," she confirmed. "Sammy and Dean are my friends. They're going to help me."

The sheriff moved closer to her and spoke quietly. "Are you sure, Janelle?"

"Yes." Janelle met the sheriff's gaze for a moment before he ordered his backup to lower their weapons and leave.

Sam and Dean slowly came to their feet, rubbing their sore knees and brushing the dirt from their clothes.

"Thanks, Janie," Sam breathed, watching the cops pull away in their decorated vehicles.

Janelle's eyes narrowed as she stared after the sheriff's car. "He's going to die soon," she said. Sam and Dean looked at her as she tilted her head. "He doesn't even know it."

Sam licked his dry, chapped lips and took Janelle's arm gently into his. "Come on," he said, pulling her back to the Impala. "Let's go." Janelle suddenly gasped, yanking her arm from Sam's grasp. "What?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Hot," she breathed incredulously with wide eyes glued to the ground. "So hot … blood …" She looked up at him. "Blonde."

Sam's face went blank as he remembered that night. Jessica. On the ceiling. Dripping blood. Gripping fire. Death. Dean.

"She was so pretty," Janelle went on.

Sam swallowed hard, fighting back tears and the awful urge to tell her to shut up.

"Let's go, Janie," Dean interrupted, his voice taking on an odd softness and friendliness. He cautiously took her hand into his, and her troubled, watered eyes met his. He felt stabbed through the heart and punched in the stomach. Why in the hell was she making him feel this way? They'd only shared one kiss, one damned kiss, nothing else. Nothing else.

Fuck, he was only trying to convince himself.