Chapter title is from song by The Rolling Stones.

67

Laugh, I Nearly Died – The Rolling Stones

He took the keys from Sam because he needed to drive. Needed to feel the curve of the road beneath his hands, to have something to focus on besides the turmoil in his head.

"How'd you find her?"

"What?"

"How'd you find her, Sam?"

"Uh, Dean. I'm pretty sure you're the one who hijacked her hunt."

Oh, no, Sam wasn't getting out of it that easily.

"Okay. Then how'd you find us? I didn't tell you were I was going."

"It was the next church on the list." Sam offered, lamely.

Dean took his eyes off the road, because 1) he had taught Sam to lie better than that and 2) he had to work to tamp his roar down to a growl.

"I could have teleported anywhere, Sam. So I'm asking again, how'd you find us?"

"I don't know, Dean. I can track your phone, remember? I figured out where you went. That's how I knew to go to the church. Maybe she's just working the same job we were. Stopping the zombies from eating everyone is kind of the biggest thing out there right now. Old churchyards are an obvious thing. And you've got to admit, picking them off fresh out of their graves before they get any powers isn't a bad idea at all."

He bit down on the hot retort burning at the tip of his tongue. It was one hell of a coincidence, and coincidences didn't happen. Even accounting for the freaky synchronized thinking thing Zee and Sam occasionally did, there was something else, but Sam purposefully forced the conversation forward.

"That hex must have come from the Exeter-Asquith Vault." Sam mused out loud. "I wonder if there's another one like it in the bunker."

Sam was thinking a little too hard about it, because Sam wanted one. It had been the first question out of Sam's mouth. As if he needed that complication. He'd been grateful when Zee had given Sam a veiled look, sharp enough with autocratic authority to put the kibosh on Sam's eagerness, the fingers on her right hand curling into her palm.

"It's rare, and this one's tuned to me."

His nails dug into his palm around the steering wheel. He glanced at the Durango in the rearview mirror. That hex was a gauntlet thrown right in his face. It gave her the edge over Sam; and when push came to shove, she would be closer and faster. The job would be hers. So yes, he'd get what he wanted—Sam safely out of the picture—but if he lost control again, if he gave in to the Mark, she'd made damned sure he wasn't going to be able to get rid of her, boot her to safety, which meant he had to stay on his A-game.

Checkmate.

"Is she still invisible to you?"

He snorted. That was all the answer Sam needed, and it was frickin' incredible that the downside of that particular fact hadn't dawned on Sam yet. He was the sitting duck he needed to be, and somehow all Sam saw was the stuff of Disney movies and bad cable TV—he should have made Sam sit through more wildlife documentaries—and he didn't know how Sam did it, believe, considering all they'd been through and seen, but then that was Sam.

Sam glanced at the side mirror, checking the Durango's position behind them for himself. Keeping an eye on it, like he'd been doing surreptitiously since Trappe. If Sam hadn't drawn a bead on her location from the start, way back from before they'd even left the bunker, he'd eat Bobby's grungy old hat. And what Sam didn't realize, well, it wouldn't hurt him. It was easier to let Sam dream.

All he could hope for was that Sam would forgive them in the end.