CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Watching Sammy lie sedated in his hospital bed with tubes in his arms, a pulse ox clipped to his index finger, and heavy bandages around his throat, Dean thought clearly for the very first time since meeting the Markem family. He loved his brother more than anything, but he needed to do what was best for all concerned. And that meant leaving Sam in the hospital under the watchful purple eyes of Mercy while he finished the trek to New Mexico alone with Janelle and her "inner demon". He had to; it was his sole purpose in his probably short life.

"Have you called John?" Mercy wondered, sitting next to Dean and handing him a coffee (no sugar, no cream, same old Dean).

"Yeah," Dean said shortly, leaning back in his chair, sipping the bitter hospital coffee.

"And?"

"He didn't answer."

Mercy smirked balefully. "Sounds like John."

Dean nodded, glancing across the room to the other bed, which had been occupied by Janelle since they'd arrived. She'd slept most of the time with no problem, and Dean wished he could take that as a good sign.

"When are you taking off?" Mercy inquired.

"Tonight," Dean grumped, and then he cleared his throat. He turned to Mercy, saying, "You're gonna stay with Sam, right? You won't leave for anything?"

"You know I won't leave him," Mercy responded comfortingly. "I'm kind of fond of him, actually."

Dean sneered. "I'm serious, Mercy. Please don't leave him."

Mercy placed her cold hand over Dean's on his knee. "I promise I won't leave him, Dean. Your little brother is in good, cold hands."

"I'm handling this the right way, ain't I?" Dean asked, ignoring the joke Mercy'd tried to lighten the mood with. "I mean … I should leave Sam and take Janelle, right?"

Mercy would soon run out of patience for Dean's sudden incredible weakness and vulnerability, she knew for sure. What happened to the tough, shoot-first-ask-questions-later Billy the Kid-wannabe she'd fallen in love with?

"Stop looking at it that way, Dean," she insisted. "You're not leaving one for the other. You're protecting them both at the same time in the same way." She paused to touch his face – sprinkled with stubble – her fingers breezing across his soft hair. "Why don't you take Janelle back to the motel?" she recommended, glancing at both the youngest Winchester and the woman harvesting Elathan's demonic soul. "You both can have a nap and a shower before you leave."

"He's my brother, Mercy," Dean reminded. "The only family I have left."

"And he's perfectly stable," she countered. "I'm not leaving."

"I could use a shower," Janelle unexpectedly spoke, sitting up in the overly oppressive hospital bed. Her empty, seen-way-too-much-for-her-age eyes met and locked with Dean's matching gaze. "And some more sleep."

"Yeah, okay," Dean sighed, standing unsteadily from his chair. He leaned over his baby brother's inanimate body, closely enough to whisper, "I'll be back, Sammy. I'll be back."

"Everything's gonna be okay, Dean," Mercy said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at her and couldn't stop an unbelieving laugh before turning back to Janelle. "Let's go, Janie." As Janelle hopped out of bed, Dean looked at Mercy. "Don't leave him alone. Not for anything."

At the motel, Dean lay on the bed nearest the door until Janelle fell back asleep on the opposite bed. He dragged his feet into the bathroom, closed the door halfway, and started the shower, but instead of shedding his clothes and stepping inside, he slumped into a sitting position against the porcelain tub. His hands shielded his face from the harsh fluorescent light, or maybe from a possible intrusion from Janelle.

A test. That's exactly what this entire job was: a test. He was being tested by the Hunting Gods and he wasn't about to fail now. Janelle was not going to be the cause of Doomsday and Sammy was not slated to be a sacrifice, either.

Dean sighed after a moment, discarded his clothing, and stepped under the scalding spray of the shower head. As he closed his eyes, all he could see was his younger brother's pale, wounded, broken body surrounded completely by white. Dean tried to tell himself that it was the white sterile environment of the hospital and not … something else.

When the shower was finished a full fifteen minutes later, Dean dried off, considered shaving (decided against it), and dressed in the freshest pair of clothes he had in his bag. Stepping out of the bathroom almost a half hour after stepping inside, he discovered Janelle sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching her chest and hyperventilating.

"What's wrong?" Dean demanded, rushing over to her.

"Nothing, I just … lost my breath for a minute." She met his eyes. "Bad dreams."

Dean nodded, brushing Janelle's hair from her face. "Yeah, seems to be going around." He inspected her face, noting the heavy bags under her eyes, the tinge of red in the whites of her eyes, her dry lips, and the galvanic bruise on her cheek from his own damn fist. "I'm …" He stopped for reasons unknown. "You gonna try and sleep some more?"

Janelle breathed a laugh, shaking her head. "Probably not a good idea. But you can. I want you to."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "I'll try. But you'll be okay?"

She smiled. "Sure. And I'll wake you up if there's anything I need."

Dean chuckled. "Catchin' on fast, kid." He stood up and placed a kiss on the top of her head. He shucked only his tee-shirt in case of emergency and all but plummeted onto his bed, falling asleep almost immediately after.

She leans forward to lick a warm, wet streak from his neck to behind his ear. "Tonight's been about me," she breathes hotly against his skin, "And don't think I haven't appreciated it." She giggles while she maneuvers Dean onto his back beneath her. "But now it's your turn." Her hands caress the sensitive flesh of his chest and shoulders, and he licks his lips. "Tell me what you want." Her body is suddenly pressed flush against his; her breasts crushed into his chest. "Tell me a kink," she begs, nipping at his earlobe.

Dean's back arches involuntarily. "Fingers," he discloses without a second thought.

Janelle's eyebrows rise inquisitively and she smirks like a goddamn succubus waiting to sink her teeth into him. "Fingers, huh?" she asks, her eyes briefly leaving his as she grabs his hand and lifts it to her seductive mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick the tip before, at an excruciatingly slow pace, takes his index finger into her hot mouth. Her tongue swirls and rolls as the digit eventually disappears entirely behind her beautiful lips.

"God," Dean moans, realizing the finger in her mouth is the very one he'd used to bury within her and bring her to a quick orgasm earlier in the night. His head becomes heavy when it's lifted to watch and it falls backward onto the pillow. "Harder," he orders, his other hand pressing hard against his groin to keep from coming prematurely. "Do it harder."

Instead, her mouth comes off and she's smiling with an honest-to-God frightening grin. "I have a better idea," she says. And, by God, if that isn't a dead giveaway of what's to come.

Janelle straddles his legs and kisses his chest and lower and he knows what her mouth is promising. He wants to tell her to stop – that she really doesn't have to do this – but his mouth is dry and all the blood from his brain has gone south for the evening.

"Relax," she whispers between kisses on his stomach and her tongue in his navel.

He nods unknowingly, his eyes closing, as his hands claw at the sheets. When his boxers are pulled down his hips, everything becomes clear and real and there's nothing he needs more than her voluptuous mouth on his straining erection.

Her lips nervously close around him, and his eyes dart open. Looking down at her – on her elbows and knees, ass in the air, lips obscenely red and stretched around him – he knows this is what Heaven feels like and he can't wait to die. She's inexperienced, very inexperienced, but it's an unbelievable turn on to know that she's only so far considered doing this for him. It's conceivable corruption caused by himself is upon her, and he's proud to be an enabler.

"God, Janelle," he sighs, threading his fingers through her alabaster hair, brushing it to one side of her head. He pumps once gently into her scorching mouth as encouragement, and she groans appreciatively.

His orgasm rips through him unexpectedly before he has the time to warn her, and the hand on her head tightens, unintentionally imprisoning her, making her swallow. She doesn't protest or even struggle, just takes it until he's done giving it.

"Oh, my God," Dean bellows, and Janelle laughs, causing him to smile as well. He replaces his boxers and pulls her up to lie next to him. "I think you broke me."

"Not a bad way to go," Janelle comments.

Dean was roused by the crinkling of paper. Lifting his head, he rubbed his eyes tiredly, glancing after at the bed next to him. Empty. He was up immediately, fully awake, heart pounding, as he searched for Janelle. Turning over onto his back, he sighed upon locating her sitting at the lonesome table with dripping wet hair, scribbling furiously on the motel stationary.

"Janelle?" he rasped.

She jumped and looked at him. "Oh, hey, Dean," she smiled awkwardly. "I didn't wake you, did I?" She wasn't reduced back to a fumbling child. Point for the Home Team.

"No." He shook his head, coughing more heavily than normal after awaking, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "It's time to go, anyway," he said, glancing at the digital clock that now read 4:57 in the morning.

"Can you read this?" Janelle asked, holding the papers out in front of Dean, who took them from her and examined them as closely as his tired eyes would allow.

"Did-did you write this?" Dean hesitantly asked.

"Yeah," Janelle whispered, "But that's not my handwriting."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know." He looked up at her. "It's Sam's."

"I really wish I could say that's the strangest thing that's happened to me," Janelle commented honestly. When Dean didn't reply, she said, "What does it say? His handwriting isn't exactly legible."

Dean grunted. "Yeah, tell me about it. It's, uh, it's an address. In Amarillo, Texas. It says the people there need help."

"Should we go?"

"I guess that all depends on you and how you feel."

Janelle shrugged. "I feel okay. Been better, but under the circumstances, I'd give myself a clean bill of health. For the time being."

"Well, then … let's ramble."

While Dean looked over a map of Texas spread out on the hood of his car, Janelle was handed several dollars worth of change and instructed to hit the vending machines, as they would not make any more unnecessary stops between here and New Mexico.

With his finger on Elk City, Oklahoma – where they now resided – Dean's forefinger glided over to Amarillo, Texas. "Elk City to Amarillo is … two hours, give or take," he muttered to himself. "Amarillo to Tucumcari is … an hour. Tucumcari to Albuquerque … another hour." He paused and realized that all of this would end on this very day. "Four hours. Hold it together for four hours."

"Hello, Mr. Winchester."

Dean spun around unsteadily, his gaze meeting white irises around tiny black pupils. No wonder he didn't instantly recognize the voice, as it was coated with an English accent. "Matthew."

"Am delighted you remember my name, son," Janelle beamed, though it wasn't Janelle. Her body was a vessel, and Dean couldn't agree with the way it was being treated.

"I'm not your son," Dean grumbled. "In fact, I don't even really wanna be your employee."

"Well, like it or not, you do need me," she argued evenly. "This place … this Amarillo, Texas … should you choose not to take me with you, you will die, Janelle will die, the world will die. Make your choice."

"Why does everything have to be goddamn riddles with you fuckin' people?" Dean yelled, loudly enough for a family of four climbing into their mini-van to turn and stare. Dean had no common courtesy left to wave and pretend that everything was all right. Everything was far from all right.

"Take caution in your tone and language, Mr. Winchester," Janelle's voice was low and evil, contradicting the white goodness in her eyes. "Am here to help you, not fight with you."

"Why'd it take you so long to help out?" Dean growled.

"You were doing just fine. A little more reckless than I would have liked, but you got the job done and took things in your stride. Including the loss of a good soldier." Dean's eyes were blank. "Your brother."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he pointed a finger at her. "You don't get to talk about him. Where were you when he got bit, huh? Where was your help then?"

"You have a problem understanding that some things are predestined. You cannot stop them, and neither can I. Sam's extraction was not my fault."

"Whatever," Dean shook his head. "Get in the car."

Janelle watched with narrowed bright eyes as Dean climbed into the driver's seat. "Ordering me around is not allowed, either," she muttered, moving toward the passenger door. When her left leg wouldn't move, she paused momentarily and sharply cocked her head. "Never a good sign." Her leg jerked into motion, allowing her to join Dean inside the Impala. "Time to hurry, Mr. Winchester."

"Copy that, Cap'n," Dean sighed.