A/N: Yay, a fun little fight scene! So, kinda annoyed with FFNet. People are reviewing, my counts on several of my stories are going up, I can see it in my legacy stats, however, you can't actually view the new reviews. Really, really annoyed.

So, as much as I hate to say it, if you have a question, better pm instead of review until they get their asses straightened out. Normally I'd say post a question in a review, because I love me some reviews, but I'm afraid I won't see it right now, and getting your questions answered are more important than my review count.

Anytime now, FFNet. Any time...

Hmm, let's see. All the Pretty Monsters updated yesterday, and it's a killer chapter if I do say so myself. How to Fix a Winchester updated Thursday, having fun with that one. Confessions of a Boy King updated last weekend, and I am really happy with that project so far, so if you have a moment, go check it out. I'd love some feed back, and at least the reviews get emailed to me, so I will see them eventually.

Thanks for reading!

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.

Prisoner of War- Chapter Twelve

"Ledges, Edges and Other Weaknesses"

Dean braced himself instinctively when he saw the ghost standing on the railing over looking the river. Nothing about her body language came across as threatening, her skirt and dress floating gently in the breeze wafting off the river.

But her eyes. They were dark and deep, and malice seemed drift from them like smoke from a campfire.

'Run!', his brain screamed, but that was nothing new for a hunter, nor was ignoring it.

They did need to go though. This was the ghost's hunting ground, and they didn't so much as have a can of salt between them.

They were sitting ducks.

"Sam, get in the car." Dean said easily, stretching out a hand slowly to brush his fingertips against the kid's shoulders. Sam's eyes were locked on the ghost, watching her the way a cat would watch a snake.

"Doubt that." Sam replied easily enough, then he shot to one side, and everything went to hell rather quickly after that.

Dean was busy watching Sam, so he didn't realize that the the ghost was watching him.

He finally realized that Sam's sudden lunge had been a play to draw the ghost's attention away from Dean.

Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Dean's attention was locked on his brother instead of the spirit, and Constance chose that moment to throw Dean across the bridge, where he skidded to a stop against the low concrete wall supporting the metal beams of the bridge.

Constance started towards him, face impassive as her image flickered in and out like a badly tuned TV set.

"Take me home?" Her voice echoed, shockingly loud and yet indistinct, and Dean wondered if this was what it had been like for Sam and Lucas to have Peter in their heads.

"DEAN!" He heard Sam cry, and he threw up a hand to signal he was OK, motioning for Sam to stay back.

"Go!" He ordered Sammy, shaking his head to try and clear the ringing.

He wasn't sure where he was ordering his brother to go, but he sure as hell didn't want the kid going up against the bitch while he was still walking wounded.

Sam listened about as well as he always did, however.

He started for the trunk, where they kept the salt rounds, apparently. Constance's head swung towards him, and in a flash, she had appeared in front of the trunk of the Impala.

Sam pulled up short so fast he nearly fell, and Dean staggered to his feet. They needed to arm themselves, cause this was one pissed off bitch.

He couldn't quite hear what she was saying to Sammy. The Impala felt like it was ten miles away instead of ten feet, and he shook his head again. She cocked her head a Sam, like a child studying a bug under a microscope, and Dean felt his lips peel back in a snarl.

She needed to get the hell away from his kid.

She hissed suddenly, eyes widening, large black pools of hate distorting her pretty features. She flung her hand outward, and Dean felt the pulse of power as it flew from her, felt the hair on his head blow backward, felt the sensation as it caressed his cheeks.

Sam flew backward, the keys falling from his hand, and Dean felt a sinking sense of deja-vu as he saw his brother fly up over the railing and over the edge of the bridge, into the dark of the night.

"SAM!"

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam knew the likelihood of Constance allowing him to reach the trunk of the Impala, and therefore the shotgun, fell somewhere between slim and never-going-to-happen, but he had to try nonetheless.

As he had expected, she intercepted him, but at least that drew her attention away from Dean for a moment.

Sam couldn't explain it, but he could almost sense the way she had zeroed in on his brother, like a moth to a flame, and he spared a thought to the irony of their earlier conversation at the diner.

"Take me home?" She queried, and Sam breathed out a silent sigh of relief when he realized he was hearing the words with his ears and not his mind.

"I'm not your type." He muttered, frozen in place as he tried to determine a way around the spirit.

"I can never go home." The ghost's voice had a mournful edge, and Sam stilled for a moment, brain latching onto her words, sensing their importance, feeling them click into place like puzzle pieces, tying into his earlier sense of missing something, and Sam was close, so close he could almost taste it.

He looked at her, deciding to hazard a guess. "You're scared to go home?" He breathed the words quietly, but not quietly enough, because in response, she threw him off the bridge.

Or at least she tried to.

Sam's spidey-sense screamed at him a split second before the ghost attacked.

He felt the rush of power, the raw energy and hate screaming from the spirit, a physical manifestation of her pain and rage and despair.

It lifted him off his feet easily, and Sam felt disoriented for a moment as he flew outward. He clipped his shoulder on the concrete bulwark, and his left arm went numb almost right away. Fortunately, the cable he latched onto was on his right side, and he immediately moved to secure his position by hooking his legs over it also.

He was literally hanging like a damn koala over the river, and already his arm and legs were shaking with exertion, because he had pushed himself too far, too fast, about two hours back and he needed to get out of this ASAP.

He could hear the sound of Dean screaming his name, but he was breathless with the effort of maintaining his hold, and had nothing to spare to reply.

He heard the sound of gun shots, and he strained to move faster. Whatever gun Dean was using would have little effect, and Dean knew it, which meant he was running out of ideas.

Sam heard the sound of the Impala starting, and confusion warred with panic, because he knew there was no way in hell Dean would drive off without him.

So who was driving the Impala?

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

"SAM!" Dean screamed again, voice ragged with fear and rage as he surged forward, desperate to see if his brother had gone into the river or landed on the bank.

Dean had been thrown against the upriver side of the bridge, while Sam had been thrown off the downriver side, so Sam could already be floating downstream.

Unless he was knocked unconscious.

Dean had watched Sam hit the concrete wall, feet flying up as he somersaulted ass over head. Dean was hoping it was just his shoulder he struck, but an impact like that in that location didn't leave much wriggle room.

An unconscious person would simply sink like a stone in the muddy waters below.

Constance was before him again in the blink of an eye, and Dean jerked back reflexively, swearing.

Her eyes burned into his, and Dean held up his gun on instinct, wishing there was a way to use salt rounds with a hand gun.

"Take me home." She commanded, and Dean narrowed his eyes at her.

"Not happening sister." He said, firing off three rounds in quick succession.

She vanished in a angry swirl of smoke, and he looked around quickly before starting back to the ledge.

He stopped, turning in angry disbelief when he heard the Impala's engine start.

Oh.

Hell.

No.

First the bitch throws his kid off a bridge, and now she's messing with his car?

"I will salt and burn the memory of your memory if that's what it takes..." Dean threatened lowly.

The lights came on, directly into Dean's eyes, and he threw up his arms in reaction. He barely managed to throw himself to the side as Baby came right at him, and he rolled back toward the upriver side of the bridge.

"Watch the damn paint you psychopath!" He hollered.

Damn women drivers.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam peered incredulously over the railing as his brother proceeded to play chicken with his own car.

That was...unexpected.

Sam was perched precariously on a thin ledge, and his left arm was still mostly useless. He flexed his hand as best he could, trying to encourage sensation to come back, but so far, it was a no-go.

Perhaps that was for the best, since Sam guessed when he could feel it it would hurt like hell.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself less than gracefully over the wall, wincing as the impact jarred his suddenly no longer numb shoulder, as oh, yes, that hurt a lot.

Neither Dean nor the Impala (ghost?) seemed to have noticed him yet, and Sam spied Dean's gun lying only a few feet away.

He rolled forward, grabbing up the gun in a motion that was smooth despite the screaming pain now radiating up his neck.

He took s shooting stance, but paused, unsure of where to aim. Shooting the car would do nothing but piss off the ghost and his brother.

Huffing out an anxious breath, he shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants, and strode forward, yelling.

"Hey! Constance! What the hell'd you do to your kids, anyway?"

Maybe if the ghost focused on him, Dean could get into the trunk and get the salt rounds.

She appeared before him with a crack of sound, like thunder, hair streaming back angrily, eyes glowing with hate.

"What are you?" She hissed, throwing a hand out again, though this time, at least, the wall stopped Sam's descent.

At least he got her attention.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw Sammy, striding into the beams of the Impala's headlights like he owned the damn place, and Jesus H Christ, was the kid trying to piss the ghost off more?

Whatever his plan, he certainly captured her attention. She threw him against the wall a second time, and Dean could only imagine the bruises Sammy was going to end up with. He was going to laugh in triumph when he torched this one.

Once he found something to torch, that is.

Not able to spare a glance at his brother, he sprinted towards the Impala's trunk, grabbing the keys off the ground where Sam had dropped them and sliding them into the lock with hands steady from having to do this in a rush one time too many.

He yanked out the shotgun, already loaded with salt. He cocked it and took careful aim.

"Sam! Down!" He yelled, and Sam dropped like he had just discovered gravity.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

"What...are you?" The spirit questioned again, more demanding this time, and Sam was grateful that Dean was to far away to hear her voice.

"I'm not a cheater, at least." He mouthed, trying to keep her attention on him and away from Dean as he saw Dean move for the car.

"Not like your husband. Who was she? An old flame, high school sweetheart? Or a waitress?"

She keened in anger and he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

It was always the damned waitress.

"Sam! Down!" He heard Dean called, and years of practice, instinct, and partnership made Sam's move as fluid as any dance move.

He heard the clamor of the shot gun firing as it echoed over the water, felt the salt as it rained down, landing in his hair and on his back.

Within seconds, Dean was hauling him up by his jacket, brushing him off, checking for injuries.

"Shit, Sammy, I thought you went over!" Sam pretended not to notice that by now, both of them were shaking.

He winced when Dean's hands went unerringly for his wounded shoulder, his brother somehow already sensing the source of the worst of the pain.

"Rules, Sammy! We have rules. Big brother-Bait! Little Brother-Rescues the victim! Not the other way around." Dean scolded, fear making his voice harsh.

Sam sucked in a pained breath. "You were the victim, dude. She was on you like white on rice. We gotta move, Dean. She may have never been hit with salt before, but it won't keep her down for long. Let's get the hell outta here."

"You're telling me." Dean muttered, hauling Sam behind him to the impala. He didn't even let Sam go around to the passenger seat, instead pushing him in the driver's side, forcing Sam to scoot over as Dean followed on his heels.

"She okay?" Sam asked, watching his brothers face to take his mind off his throbbing shoulder.

"Seems okay." Dean muttered as he started her, turning her neatly and speeding off. "Better than you anyway. Give me a run down." He ordered, their code for "tell me what hurts, in order from need-a-hospital to need-an-aspirin".

Sam shook his head. "I'm good." He stated, though he pretty much felt like he'd just been thrown off Everest and left bleeding in the snow for ten days.

"Sam! Tell the truth so we can fix it, or dammit, we going to the ER!" Dean yelled, thoroughly tired of trying to keep Sam okay without at least a little help from Sam himself.

Sam made a face, but reluctantly replied, knowing Dean was right, and hiding injuries was unprofessional.

"Clipped my shoulder good on the wall. It works, so not broken, not dislocated. Just seriously, seriously pissed off. Knee isn't feeling great, but it got a workout, so that makes sense. Head hurts, no blurred vision, no ringing, so no concussion." He said grudgingly.

"And your fever's back." Dean stated authoritatively. Sam raised a brow.

"And you have a concussion. And a hell of a bruise on your forehead." He replied, and this time Dean scowled.

"I want that bitch in a box." He muttered, hitting his hand against the steering wheel, looking over at Sam. "Christ, Sammy, I really though you went into the water again."

Sam sighed. Dean was having a harder time with all this than Sam was some days.

But then again, Dean didn't know Sam was a lost cause.

"Let's go back to the hotel. Ice. Lot's of ice. And painkillers." Sam said tiredly.

"And antibiotics and bed." Dean added, a 'don't even argue' tone once again in his voice, and Sam mourned the few moments back at the diner when they had been brothers, instead of hero and lost cause.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean got them back to the motel in record time. His head was pounding in time to his heartbeat, and Sam was shaking, white and sweaty with pain or fever or both.

"Inside. I'll get the gear." He ordered tersely.

Sam's eye flew up to his. "I can help." He offered, and Dean choked down a laugh.

"INSIDE." Dean insisted, as calmly as he could manage. Sam nodded once, jerkily, lips pressed together in a thin line, and Dean instantly berated himself for taking that tone with his sick, injured brother who had thrown himself not once but twice at a ghost to try to cover Dean tonight.

"I need a moment here, Sam." Dean offered weakly, and darned if Sam didn't look just a little sorry for Dean.

Broken, bruised and feverish, and worried about his big brother.

Sam went inside then, and Dean waited while he turned on the lights and stuck a hand out the door, signaling the room was clear.

Then he lay his head down on the steering wheel. The vicious, pounding in his head was bad enough, the but memory of Sam flying up over the ledge of the bridge insisted on replaying over and over in his head like a broken record.

Dean hadn't been lying, when he'd told Sam he thought he'd gone over. He'd had no choice but to keep moving, keep fighting, but the entire time he'd been fighting the instinct to jump off the ledge right after Sammy.

The events of the lake and Sammy's near death weren't far enough away, yet, would never be far enough away, in Dean's opinion.

For one moment, out there on the bridge, he'd been so sure it was happening all over again, and he'd felt this crushing sense of failure and fear, because, once again, he hadn't kept Sam safe.