ENTITY (Chapter Eight)

"Her name is Bethany Redmond," Sam informed as Dean drove. "She lives alone. The closest neighbors two miles on either side. She sounds like a bit of a do-gooder. She's on at least a dozen committees around town and was active in the community up until recently."

"Up until the attack on Tara's family?"

"Yeah, though the women weren't sure on the dates, the timing sounds about right." Sam scratched at his shoulder, turning to kneading as the itch turned into a dull ache. "Apparently she's a dog nut. She spent months organizing the dog events at the show and then never bothered to turn up. She also used to run training sessions every Saturday at the local park."

"Let me guess, that stopped a few weeks back as well."

"Yeah. So I figure it's her. The attack, both the physical and emotional aspects of it, would have shaken her up. She could be suffering from PTSD. You know, a psychological response to the trauma."

"I know what PTSD is, Sam. I'm not a total moron."

"Didn't say you were."

"Good."

"Fine."

"Turn here."

"Doing it."

"I'll do the talking, you just hang back and smile or something."

"Yeah, no problem, dude. You're better with the geriatrics anyway."

"She's not geriatric."

"As close as. She's over fifty, isn't she."

"You're nearly thirty, Dean. Fifty is not that far away."

"And you're hot on my tail, little brother. So, is that her place?" Dean slowed the car.

"How should I know? Look at the number on the gate."

"There isn't one. There isn't even a gate."

"Yeah there is." Sam pointed. "It's laying with its ass up on the ground."

"Bet the number is on the back of it."

"You volunteering to get out and go read it?"

"No. You? I'm not keen on a round of buckshot in my ass."

"You think she has a gun?" Sam asked, squinting to look up the tree lined driveway. He could see a house at the end of the avenue, but distance denied him much more detail than that.

"Don't know. Probably. Don't all these old spinsters have one in their back closet."

"Then I'm definitely doing the talking, Dean. You know how easily you set people off. I'm not getting shot because you've mouthed off."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're welcome."

The small cottage was more dilapidated up close than it had appeared from the road. Dean parked the Impala beside the rickety garage and cut the engine. He glanced at Sam before they wordlessly exited the vehicle and walked to the front steps.

"Get off my property," a woman screeched from behind the closed door. It flew open a moment later and the timber doorframe cracked sharply against the side of the house. Sam hesitated, one foot on the top step the other just below. He saw the shotgun first, and immediately flashed one arm out in extension, blocking Dean from moving ahead of him. The weapon's owner appeared a second later, long baggy jeans threading against the floorboards as the fifty-something year old woman stepped outside. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes but Sam saw a shadow of heavy bruising along her cheekbone. He looked down as she cocked the rebounding hammer on the break action shotgun. The action was smooth and practiced, as was the steady aim. Dean had been right, the woman was a crazy spinster with a gun – and she apparently knew how to use it.

"We're not here to cause any trouble," Sam started. A single overhead shot made him duck and behind him, Dean cursed. The woman reloaded. "Please," Sam said, "just hear me out."

The shotgun shifted to Sam. His mouth went dry as he stared at the muzzle now less than two feet from his chest. If she pulled the trigger, he would be dead before he hit the ground. It was hardly a comforting thought. He raised his hands fractionally. "Are you Beth Redmond?"

"That was a warning shot," she stated crisply. "The next one won't be."

"Rose and Hazel gave us your address. You are Beth Redmond?"

"I'll count to three. One."

"No." Sam heard Dean grunt and resisted the tug on his jacket. "We know Tara Scott and we think you might too."

"Two."

"Sam, c'mon."

Sam almost fell off balance as Dean caught his sleeve and pulled. He grabbed at the verandah post just in time to save himself from a tumble down the steps. Flaked paint fell away beneath his fingers and behind him, the woman finished the count of three. He spun back to her and extended his arms to the side. "Beth, please. Five minutes, that's all I ask. I know you know Tara. I know you were there. You were hurt by it and now you're scared. But we can help. My brother and I. Please, five minutes. Just five minutes."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Sam licked his lips and gestured toward the shotgun. "Could you put that down?"

"No. Hands on your head. Both of you."

Sam put his right hand on his head, but could not properly raise the left. Dean must have followed her instruction because the woman's attention was solely on him.

"Both hands," she jabbed the shotgun toward him as she took a step closer.

Sam tried, but tightness through his shoulder prevented it and he knew his expression betrayed his frustration and pain. Just the effort of keeping the limb elevated was taxing. "I can't," he admitted. "It hurt me, like it hurt you."

Beth jabbed the shotgun forward in a sharp, unprovoked motion. The muzzle rammed into Sam's shoulder, right into the wound site. Pain bladed through him and he instinctively twisted away. Right off the step and into a tumbled fall down the stairs.

He rolled, relying on experience to relax his muscles and limbs so that the impact lessened the potential for injury. When he came to an eventual tangled stop, his shoulder and back throbbed but otherwise he had come off unharmed. The tentative attempts to win Beth's trust had not gotten off so well though and were rapidly being further degraded by his incensed brother. Dean screamed something incredibly insulting and derogatory, his tone high pitched. Bitch, fuck and psycho all bled into one heaped and garbled insult and Sam winced. He pushed himself up, accepting the older man's offered support but shushed him as he continued to grumble and curse. "I'm okay," he reassured.

"Can you walk?" Dean asked, his arm around Sam's back and another at his stomach.

"We're not leaving."

"The hell we're not. That bitch tried to kill you."

"No she didn't. It was an accident."

The woman had moved to the steps, the shotgun loose in her grip and one hand on the railing. She was pale, but composed. When she saw that Sam had suffered no serious injury, she said, "You can have five minutes. I'll tell you what happened, what I saw, but that's it."

Dean's palm flattened out against Sam's stomach, the touch possessive, warning. "We're leaving, Sam."

"No we're not. We need to speak to her. Find out what she knows." He offered a tight reassuring smile to his brother, gently moving Dean's hand away from his stomach. "I'm fine. Really."

Sam shook his head as Dean opened his mouth to protest. He moved up the stairs, nodding tightly to Beth as she murmured an apology. Dean growled low in his throat, clearly not in the forgiving mood. Sam let it slide.

They were ushered into a small living room, the furniture sparse but clean. Photographs lined the mantle over a cold fireplace. Assorted sized frames with images of dogs and people, but mostly dogs. Beagles and award winning if the multitude of ribbons and small trophies that lined the shelves were any indication.

"You have Beagles," Sam said, nodding toward the photos. "They're beautiful dogs."

"Had." Beth said as she indicated that they should sit. Sam did so. Dean remained on his feet, his posture tense. He was wound like a tightly coiled spring, the barely contained tension almost palpable.

Sam sighed and pointedly stared. Dean glowered back, refusing to budge, to relax. Sam recognized big-brother over-protectiveness when he saw it. "Dean," he said tightly, smiling at Beth as she regarded them both. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat. "You said, had." He swept his gaze over the images, the awards. One ribbon had been earned just the month before. "What happened to them?"

"The dogs?" Beth queried, her hands shaking. She looked down, fumbling with the now lowered and less threatening weapon. When she raised her head again, Sam saw something close to tears in her eyes. He held his breath, flicking his attention between her face and the shotgun. Had she shot her pets?

He darted his attention to Dean. The older boy had obviously reached the same sick conclusion and he moved closer to Sam, his tall form defensive.

"Makes no sense, you know," Beth murmured. "Tango was eight, Boxer six. I'd had them since they were puppies. They were loyal, loving… but the look in their eyes."

Sam rubbed at his thighs, warming his fingers. "They ran away?"

"No, I let them go. They were petrified, frantic with fear. I didn't realize at first that they were terrified of me."

"When did this happen?"

"Does it really matter when it happened," she snapped. "They're gone and I can't have them back."

"Someone else is looking after them?" Sam pressed, really needing to confirm that she had not killed them.

Beth turned hateful eyes on him and Sam flinched. He held the gaze, realizing that the anger was not directed at him, but at the situation the woman had found herself in.

"They ran like the hounds of hell were on their tails," she said woodenly, the anger sliding from her eyes to be replaced with raw devastation. "I won't put them through that again." She leaned the shotgun against the doorway, then considered them both as though assessing the threat they posed.

"But they're alive," Sam said.

"Yes, of course. I returned them to the breeder." She deftly retrieved the shotgun, then said, "I'll make some tea." She retreated into the hallway, taking the gun with her.

Sam turned his attention to his brother. "Dean, sit the hell down, you're freaking her out."

"Did that bitch bust open your stitches?" Dean said as he moved in close, dropping to one knee before his brother. He searched Sam's face.

"Keep your voice down."

"Well, did she?"

"No. I'm fine." He batted Dean's hands away as they attempted to tug at his jacket. "Stop it, man."

Dean drew back. "You're not bleeding all over the Impala, Sam."

"I'm not bleeding at all. Go sit down and try to look less threatening."

"She's got a gun in case you haven't noticed."

"That's exactly why you need to sit down and behave."

Dean grunted, then shoved up and prowled around the room. "I don't like this."

"We need to know what she knows."

"She's a freakin' loony with a shotgun. What else is there to know?"

"You worried that you can't take her down."

"Hell no, Sammy," Dean responded tightly. He withdrew the Glock from the waistband of his jeans, holding it triumphantly as Sam's eyes widened. "I'm worried about the consequences if I have to."

"Put that thing away, Dean. You can't shoot her."

Dean looked vaguely pissed off. He caressed the weapon with his thumb, then tucked it back away, drawing his jacket back over his hips to hide it. "If she so much as touches you again–"

"You'll do nothing. She's scared, traumatized and," he gestured toward Dean, "she let us – you – into her home. Of course she's going to be jumpy."

"That out of the box bitch did not have to push you down the stairs, Sam."

Sam rested his head back against the sofa, shifting to ease the pull on his shoulder. Beth's poking and the fall had not re-opened the wound, but it had hurt like hell. He was not about to share that with his already overprotective sibling. "She wanted proof. Proof that I'd been attacked as well. Shared experiences. It won her trust."

"Shared experiences, my ass. I don't like this. I say we bust this place before she puts strychnine in our tea."

"No, we need to know what she knows."

"Her and Missy Benders would make a great pair," Dean grumbled, tossing another searching look at Sam before he sat down, his hands worrying before him. "They're probably mother and daughter. Watch out if she brings out cookies. They're probably made from the local wildlife that she shoots and minces up. Hell, who says Tango and Boxer aren't in there somewhere."

"Now you're just being plain dumb-ass crazy."

Dean raised his eyebrows as though surprised by the comment. He pursed his lips, his shoulders tense. He darted his gaze around the room, no doubt assessing all of the woman's possessions in an effort to determine her homicidal tendencies. Beth returned to the room, and Dean's attention snapped to her, his eyes narrowed. Sam gasped softly as he took in the injury to the woman's face. She had removed her sunglasses and Sam saw that he had been right. Her right eye was entirely swollen shut, the flesh pitted and bruised. A pale line of stitches tracked along the ridge of the socket and across the bridge of her nose.

"It did that?" Sam asked as he gestured to the wound.

Beth placed a silver tray with three floral cups onto the coffee table. "I was lucky," she said as she poured them each a cup. She looked across at him. "So were you."

Sam nodded and smiled vaguely. Beth flicked her gaze to Dean, raking her gaze up and down, assessing him. A frown formed on her forehead and Sam coughed lightly, bringing the woman's attention back to him.

He reached across and took a cup, taking care to add milk and a cube of sugar. He withdrew and tossed a meaningful glare at Dean. His brother shrugged, all wide-eyed and innocent. Sam deliberately took a long sip of the tea, watching his brother over the rim of the cup. Dean held the gaze, then his shoulders dropped as he gave in.

"Tea looks nice," Dean said cheerily as he reached over and mimicked Sam's actions. "Any cookies to go with this?"

Sam almost choked. He covered his reaction by taking another long and somewhat noisy sip. Beth considered them both before she turned her attention to Sam. "Did you sense it before it struck?"

Sam glanced at his brother. "Yes."

"Then you have powers too."

"I sometimes have visions. That's how we found Tara."

"What did you see?"

Sam related the events that had led them to Tara, then to Missouri, Marcus and eventually back to Perryton and Beth. He was careful to leave out names and he did not elaborate on the pain that the visions had put him through.

She watched him for a long moment after he had finished speaking. "I had a vision too," she started. Sam leaned forward, immediately attentive. She continued. "It was just a flash or two, but enough for me to recognize the Scott's. I knew them, you see. Had helped them pick out a puppy for Tara just a few days before. Poor thing didn't settle in though. It ran away, or tried to. Got hit by a car as it escaped the yard. Tara was so upset that her parents decided to not get her another. Probably for the best. I don't think that child really knew how to look after a pet."

Sam knotted his fingers as he leaned in even closer. "The flashes, what were they like?"

"Brief and vivid. Intense, I guess. They were premonitions of what eventually did happen." She nodded toward Dean. "You've said that he saw the aftermath."

"Did her parents know there was something wrong with her?"

"No. And neither did I until I got there."

"You touched her?"

"Yes. Is that what triggered it?"

Sam nodded. "Before it attacked, did you feel anything. A tingle, some kind of pain against your hand?"

"No. But it all happened with such speed though, there might have been something there, but I don't recall."

"So how did you get away?"

Beth looked down, her hands shaking as she held the cup of tea. "It let me go. There's no other explanation. It went after Maureen and Peter first. Then came for me. It was so fast. I must have passed out, because I woke to find Tara had gone and her parents were…." Beth didn't finish, her breathing unsteady as she exhaled heavily. She placed the tea cup on the table and stood. "I won't go with you. Whatever is in that child can stay there."

"We don't need you to come with us, but we need to know if you tried anything. If you know any way that we can exorcise the spirit from her."

"It's not a spirit. It's a life-force. An entity. Ethereal rather than organic, but not a spirit in the true sense of the word."

"But it can be exorcised. Removed from the host."

"In theory." Beth walked to a bookshelf by the door and retrieved two items. "Take these," she held out a book and a candle. "The exorcism ritual is on page 102. It's the one I was going to try, but didn't get the chance. I think it will work though, if you can get the entity to leave the host first. The candle is cedarwood, renowned for its—"

"Cleansing and purification properties," Sam cut in. "It wouldn't draw out a spirit though. And you've said this thing isn't a spirit."

"No, it's something else. Something almost organic." She shrugged, her attention drawn to Dean. "Is this what you two boys do? You hunt things like this?"

Sam again found his gaze drawn to his brother. He wet his lips, watching Dean as he offered a vague answer. "Yeah, it sort of runs in the family."

"Not much of a life."

Sam's lips tightened and he smiled thinly, his gaze still locked with Dean's. "Nah, it's not all bad."

Dean's eyes lightened fractionally and one eyebrow lifted. "We should go," the elder hunter said.

"Yeah," Sam exhaled. He extended his hand to accept the book, and the candle for what it was worth. As he took the two items, his fingers almost brushed Beth's. Close, but not quite making contact. Sam froze as he felt a familiar tingle through his hand. An almost electric charge, dull but obvious. The static-like sharpness bristled against his fingertips, sliding up his palm.

He jerked back, almost dropping the book. The sensation clung for a moment, inching coldness up his arm, seeking to make contact, to meld with him. But it lost its grip and slid back. He stepped back, his hands shaking. He wordlessly stared into her eyes, searching for some hint that she understood what he had felt. He saw nothing but confusion, a touch of concern maybe, but mostly confusion and fear.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his tongue was so numb that he couldn't form words. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the injury to her face: the torn flesh, the pale stitches, the dark bruising and the still swollen crescent of her eyelids.

"Sam?" Dean called.

Sam shook his head, a bitter breathless denial cold against his lips. He clutched the book, holding it so tightly that his fingers cramped. He heard his brother thanking the woman, saw Dean extend a hand toward her. He reached out to stop his brother, and flinched as the two made contact. Sam expected Dean to splinter, expected his brother to be torn apart… but nothing happened. Dean released the woman's hand, gestured to him and walked toward the door.

Sam nodded, his nostrils flared. A sudden overwhelming urge to run gripped him. He bowed his head and scurried from the room, taking a wide arc around his brother before beating a hasty retreat across the verandah and down the steps. He struggled to breathe, to force air into his suddenly non-compliant lungs. Somehow he made it to the car before his knees gave out. He lurched against the Impala, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm within his chest.

It all made sense. The reason Beth had been spared. It had wanted her. It had claimed her, infiltrated her body through the wound at her eye. Sam sensed it, like he had sensed it in Tara. The very same sensation, differing in intensity but not in resonance.

The next leap was hardly rocket science. It had spared Beth… and it had spared Sam. It had drawn both he and Beth in, lured them, then used them – as hosts. The wound in his shoulder had been its entry point.

Sam blinked back tears of frustration and rage. The dull edge of blind hysterical panic screamed through his mind. Recognizing it and the need to control it, he sharply slammed his fist down onto the Impala's roof. The comforting smack of flesh against metal shocked away the tears. He did it again, and again and as the pain flooded his hand and strobed up his arm, his heart rate leveled out and the panic inched away.

"Hey. Easy on the car, dude," Dean said as he reached the Chevy. He hesitated, the keys jangling with a heavy sound as he stared across the roof of the car. "What's wrong with you?"

Sam's hand stung, but the pain cleared his mind, gave him focus. "Nothing," he bit out. He ground his teeth together and avoided eye contact with his brother. "We need to leave," he said flatly. "Now."

End Chapter Eight