CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sun was setting by the time the Impala made its way into Blytheville, Arkansas. Dean's eyes were hardly able to stay opened as he found the nearest motel, coming to a squeaky halt in the parking lot. The stop awoke Sam and he lifted his head.

"Where are we?" he asked, stretching his long frame within the small confines of the classic muscle car.

"Welcome to Blytheville, Arkansas," Dean tried shouting, but his voice had been reduced to crackling sleepiness. The look on Sam's face and the weight on Dean's eyes caused him to stop mid-sentence. "Just go get us a room, Sam."

Sam rubbed his face and sighed. "I'll be right back," he said, getting out and slamming the door shut behind him.

Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and relaxing back against his seat. Suddenly, Dean's arms were involuntarily thrown up, his fingers locking around the steering wheel. No time to ask questions before small, soft hands clamped over his throat. Dean's brows arched furiously, his eyes widened to their full extent, and he gasped hard for air when he felt hot breath against his ear.

"You must not be very intelligent," Janelle growled, her voice taking on an odd English accent. "Otherwise you would not be stopping at a motel. Am I correct, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean could only gag and cough in response as his bloodshot eyes moved to the rearview mirror. Janelle's eyes were consumed by white save for the tiny black pupils, but he'd rather them white than red.

"I cannot hear you," she grumbled, her hands sealing his windpipe. Now he was receiving no air, and spots were flicking at the edges of his vision. He became frightened, truly frightened, for the first time since Sam's apartment burst into flames.

"Yes," Dean croaked. She relented, but only a bit.

"Yes, you are unintelligent or yes, you would like to see this little girl die?" she commanded.

"No!" Dean exclaimed, finding hidden strength to turn his head and glare at her, though he was hardly able to see properly anymore.

"Then allow me to ask you a simple question, Mr. Winchester. Why are you here when you know perfectly well that you could be there in less than three days?"

"We're tired," Dean choked.

"Well, then I suppose that makes everything fine and right in the world!" Janelle snapped directly into his ear, and Dean winced. "She is not well, Mr. Winchester!"

Dean had no idea who he was listening to, but they were right. He should've known better. Why did he keep fucking up?

"Aw, dry your eyes," she quipped nastily. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop hating yourself or you will never get through this alive. Do you understand?" Dean nodded despite the pain and his temporary blindness. "Congratulations, your eyes are now opened, Mr. Winchester." She removed her hands, and Dean's arms fell from the steering wheel.

"Who are you?" he coughed.

Janelle climbed over the front seat and settled her arm behind Dean as her ungodly white eyes stared him down. "We sure made a pretty one," she commented, tickling the back of his head with her index finger.

"Tell me who you are," Dean repeated.

Janelle's eyebrows rose and she retracted her hand. "I happen to think you are in no position to be making demands," she said. Dean only glared at her, and she leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. "My name is Matthew ... and I am a guardian." She moved even closer. "Your guardian."

"Oh, really?" Dean sighed, disbelief written all over his face.

Janelle's smile widened. "You do not have to believe in me for me to believe in you, Mr. Winchester," she explained. She turned her head to see Sam leaving the motel office.

"So, what are you, like, a guardian angel?" Dean inquired.

"Something like that," Janelle muttered, turning back to him. "Get some sleep, Mr. Winchester, but be cautious. Do not let your guard down for one second."

Dean noticed that this 'guardian' had not used one contraction since their conversation began.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Mr. Winchester'?" he wondered.

She smiled again. "Because unlike some other guardians, I prefer politeness," she said. "Now, catch me when I fall."

Dean hadn't the chance to ask what the 'guardian' was speaking of before Janelle's entire body became limp and she fell into his arms.

"Son of a ... bitch," Dean grumbled, trying to maneuver her into a sitting position next to him.

Sam climbed into the car and looked at his brother confusedly. "What happened?" he wondered.

Dean glanced at him. "Long story."

After being directed to the room, Dean grabbed he and Sam's tattered overnight bags along with Janelle's bag, carried them inside, and then plopped down onto the bed closest to the door. He fell back, closing his eyes. He'd never before been so thankful for a hard, rather uncomfortable, motel bed.

Sam, however, watched with interest as Janelle tip-toed throughout the small room, inspecting several objects. She got down on her knees in front of the television and her index finger poked at the screen. Thinking she might want the TV on, Sam pressed the power button.

"Turn it off!" Janelle screeched once the picture of a news anchor materialized.

Sam hurriedly did as he was told, and Janelle climbed to her feet, keeping an eye on the television as she headed toward the bathroom.

"So, what, does that mean we can't watch TV?" Dean asked, lifting his head to look at Sam.

Sam stared at his brother incredulously. "Why don't you pay attention to her, Dean?" he yelled. "Maybe you could learn something from her!"

Dean sighed, sitting up, and rubbed his face. "I think I've learned all I want to learn from her," he mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced up at him. He hadn't planned on telling Sam about what happened in the Impala while he was checking in, but Sam would probably find out sooner than later, and Dean hardly wanted to have an argument about it.

"Well," he started, standing from the bed, "While you were checking in, Janelle sort of ..." He paused, tilting his head. "Well ..."

"What, Dean?" Sam urged.

"She sort of ... became ... someone else."

"What are you talking about?"

"She was possessed, but it wasn't Elathan talking to me," Dean explained. Sam stayed quiet to allow Dean his own time to confess. "She had these ... white eyes ..." he continued, gazing at the floor as he remembered the white irises and black pupils. Then he unintentionally recalled his fear, which caused him to shake his head and return his attention to Sam.

"So, what makes you think it wasn't Elathan?" Sam inquired.

"She said her name was Matthew," Dean slowly replied. "And ... assuming Matthew is male, he's ... my ..." He cleared his throat, now completely unsure of this entire explanation. The look on Sam's face was evidence enough that he sounded crazy.

"Dean's guardian," Janelle finished for him as she stepped out of the bathroom. The brothers turned to her. She was smiling despondently, the fingers of her left hand twiddling swiftly at her side.

"My-my what?" Dean stuttered.

"His what?" Sam reiterated.

"Dean's guardian," Janelle said, wondering aimlessly around the room. "He's very pretty ... like Dean. Blonde hair, blue eyes, white wings."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he closed his eyes, scratching his head. "I'm going to bed," he announced.

Before Dean could enjoy the euphoric state of sleep, he rummaged through the bag he and Sam had thrown together for Janelle only to find a few essentials were missing. It upset him more so than it should have due to his exhaustion and very short fuse.

"Are you kidding?" he grumbled angrily, jamming her clothes back into the bag.

"That's not very nice," Janelle said from the floor next to the bed.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry, sweet cakes, but me and my ignorant brother didn't bother to pack you anything to sleep in!"

Janelle's expression turned frightened, and Sam's teeth clenched. When Dean got tired, he got angry, and took it out on everyone around him.

"Why are you so mean to me?" she asked cheerlessly.

"I ..!" Dean started to yell, then stopped, his chin falling to his chest and a pissed-off smile flowing over his full lips. "I'm-I'm not trying to be mean to you," he sighed, walking around the bed and squatting down in front of her. Sam pretended to unpack while he listened to what Dean said. "I'm just angry and ... upset ... and ... I'm really tired ..."

"Then go to sleep, Dean Winchester," Janelle commanded, grabbing his face and pulling him closer to her. "You're too pretty to be so tired." And she smiled brilliantly.

Dean cocked his head to the side, staring into her green eyes, trying his hardest to figure things out, figure her out.

"You smile ... at the ... weirdest damned times," he said, grinning awkwardly.

Janelle's smile somehow widened and she moved closer to him, her nose brushing his. "There are no weird times to smile, Dean," she said, so softly that her tone almost brought him to tears, but Dean Winchester never cried. Never.

"Maybe you're right," Dean whispered, looking down and away. Her presence alone was enough to rattle the few nerves he had left, especially after meeting his 'angel', but staring into her inexperienced eyes was something entirely different.

"Oh, my God," Janelle whined, suddenly beginning to break down, much to the shock and confusion of Sam and Dean. "You're so sad."

Dean's grief-stricken eyes met hers again purely out of reflex and he wanted to look away again, but he couldn't find the strength to this time, as if Janelle had stolen his free will.

"How are you still alive?"

Sam finally stood from his bed and hurried over to Dean and Janelle. His brother could quite possibly have been Superman in disguise, but there was only so much a man could take. A man like Dean, anyway.

"Come on, Janie," he said, placing his hands beneath her arms and lifting her up. She fell against him, sobbing uncontrollably, as she clutched at his shirt.

"He can't breathe inside, Sammy," she wailed, trying to look over Sam's shoulder at Dean, but his height prevented her from doing so. "Dean's suffocating."

Sam listened to every word, but gave no response; he didn't know what the hell to say. If Janelle was speaking the elusive truth, then he and Dean shared similar feelings. Sam had always wanted to believe that no one had any idea how he was feeling about anything, which was why he never discussed his nightmares with Dean. Maybe he'd been wrong about his brother, terribly wrong, and terribly presumptuous.

"You can lay in my bed while Dean gets some sleep," Sam suggested. Janelle sniffed dolefully and wiped her wet face against Sam's T-shirt. Sam smirked, remembering when he did the same to Dean's T-shirts as kids when Dad spent late nights at the bar; except Sam wasn't going to smack Janelle upside her head like Dean had done him.

"I feel yucky," Janelle revealed, looking up at Sam.

"You want to take a shower?" Sam wondered.

"Can I take a bath instead?"

Sam smiled. "You can do anything you want, Janie," he told her.

While Sam aided Janelle in the bathroom, Dean retrieved his father's journal and idly leafed through the pages, though he wasn't reading or looking for anything important. Propping his arm up on the bed, as he still sat on the floor, he could still hear Janelle's words, and he had to pick them apart, had to interpret everything.

He can't breathe inside, Sam. Was that true? Of course it was true and he was in denial if he had to ask himself that. He'd been abandoned by the only four people in his life he ever and would ever care about: Mom, Dad, Sam and her.

Dean's suffocating. Correct. For 22 years, he'd been breathing with a brown paper sack over his nose and mouth, and as the years raged on, the bag was shrinking. And this new case with Janelle was clearly threatening to crumble his bag.

Sam exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and his shoulders slouched when he caught sight of his older brother still seated on the floor.

"Janelle's in the bath," he said. Dean just nodded. "I-I gave her something to sleep in." No nod this time. "Are you all right?"

Dean sniffed and cleared his throat, slamming the journal shut, and moving to sit on the bed. "I'm fine, Sam," he growled, untying his boots with a touch of anger.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam knew in the back of his mind that he shouldn't press the issue, but Dean was his brother and he cared.

"No, thanks, Dr. Phil," Dean nearly yelled, stripping to his boxers and climbing into bed. "Save the psychoanalysis for my birthday."