Previously: "We've handled situations like this before," Sam said, "and we're going to do everything we can to keep you safe. I promise."
Dean was about to protest the false optimism his little brother was presenting—no use giving her hope when they still knew so little about the situation—when Mel let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered.
Chapter 9: What We Do Know
The quiet, muffled sounds of someone moving around in the bedroom drifted down the hallway into the living room, where Dean once again found himself standing in front of the sliding door, staring out into the swirling snow. It was still falling relentless, showing no sign of abating, and the drift against the glass had grown exponentially in the last hour. As much as he knew they couldn't stay, he was beginning to have serious doubts about the Impala's ability to get them safely away. Even with all of the driving he'd done over the years, there came a point when the snow literally wouldn't let you continue, and if they were in the middle of nowhere when that happened… He let the thought trail off, pointedly ignoring it because the alternative was equally unpleasant, remaining here and waiting for whatever was after them to attack.
Like it or not—and he would never admit this to Sam—he wasn't going to be much help if something happened, and Mel wasn't either. So, if something came through that front door, they would be helpless, and that was something Dean hated to be, did his best to avoid. Better to get the hell out of Dodge while they could, figure out what they were up against, and then come back when they had a fighting chance.
Behind him, he could hear the sounds of Sam moving around the kitchen, once again doing his best to make it shine. Mel had finally slowed in her near-frantic cooking spree and had retreated into the bedroom to pack some of her things in preparation to leave, and the brothers had decided to leave her in peace for the moment, give her some space to process. Occasionally, Dean could hear a stifled sob, and his face tightened, hardening at yet another life that had been irreparably changed because of tangential association with the Winchesters.
"You about done in there, Samantha?" he called over his shoulder, mind forcing the image of the crying girl away as he focused on something more familiar.
A weary, irritated huff heralded Sam's entry into the room, drying a mixing bowl with a damp dishtowel. "It's Sam."
"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, eyeing the towel with a hint of a smile. "You look pretty comfortable doing the whole domestic thing."
Sam's eyes lowered slightly, and Dean winced internally as he remembered that for four years, his brother had been normal, done things like wash dishes, go to the movies, hang out with friends. "Jess liked to keep a clean kitchen," Sam said quietly, "said she could practically hear her mother telling her to 'take care of that mess.'"
Dean chuckled softly, turning his head to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "So that's where you got it from," he said lightly, carefully. "Gotta say, I'm grateful, annoying as it is."
Eyes still haunted, Sam nonetheless rolled his eyes. "Dean, Dad was after you all the time. I swear, it's the only thing you ever fought him on."
Dean shrugged as carefully as possible, feeling his ribs shift uneasily at the motion as he breathed cautiously until his insides settled down again. "It's not like we really stayed anyone long enough to worry about it." They really hadn't, Dean mused. Hotels, motels, temporary home after temporary home. He really couldn't remember lingering in one place long enough to become attached to it, much less care about its upkeep, except for the Impala, and even he could admit—privately—that his…passion…for keeping her clean was borderline obsessed…not that she didn't deserve it, of course. She took care of them, never left, never let him down.
Still, Dean could see that he'd revealed a bit too much with that line as Sam was getting that look on his face, the one that said, 'We're-so-totally-headed-for-a-chick-flick-moment.' And that was getting a bit more touchy-feely than he would like—damn medication—so he rather abruptly changed the subject.
"So," he said, drawing the word out, "what do you think's going on here?"
With a pointed look that suggested the discussion was being tabled, not forgotten, Sam shrugged, sighing. "I'm not sure. I mean, based on what Mel said, there're at least two demons after us."
"That Caroline chick and her twitchy sidekick," Dean said.
Sam nodded. "Right. And from the sound of things, they've been tracking us specifically, hunting us down."
"Well, that's nothing new. We are, after all," Dean said with a grin, "on this year's hot items list."
"That's not exactly a good thing, Dean."
"Sure it is, Sammy. It means we're doing our job, doing it well, and it's making them nervous enough to come after us specifically." The thought caused a certain pride to well up in Dean, the thought that their efforts against the supernatural were actually having an impact strengthening the resolve he'd developed the day he'd witnessed his mother's death. It was their job to protect the innocent, to allow everyday people to go about their clueless lives in blissful ignorance, and in a backhanded sort of way, making it onto the demon hit list provided a certain validation to his existence, let him know that the long days, loose lifestyle, were worthwhile.
Dean crooked the corner of his mouth up into a smile as he glanced at the pictures hanging on the wall behind Sam's head, the happy, smiling camping photos he'd noticed when he'd first walked into the room. "We're doing good, Sam."
His little brother could only nod in agreement, mouth curling up in response to the self-satisfaction he sensed in Dean only to disappear almost immediately as another muffled sob ghosted down the hall and hung like a fog in the silence. "Not good enough," he whispered, the pain and fear in that soft sound bringing them both back to the harsh reality of their existence. For as many as they did save, for every evil son of a bitch they sent packing, there was always another to take its place, another victim.
"She'll deal," Dean said in a rare fit of optimism, or maybe it was pragmatic realism. "It's either that or she cracks, and you have to admit, she's done pretty good so far, all things considered. She's barely holding it together, but still, at least the waterworks haven't completely shut her down yet." There, a backhanded compliment hidden under his normal, jovial, distant criticism.
Still, Sam glowered at him. "Considering the fact that her world's been turned upside down and we're about to take her away from everything familiar—including her friend, who's probably dead—I'd say she's doing great.
"And besides, as our only source of information as to what happened yesterday, we're lucky she's speaking coherently at all, much less in as much detail as she's been able to provide." Dean could practically hear the 'So there' tagged onto the end of that forceful endorsement and suppressed a smile at his little brother's protectiveness shining through.
"She did do a good job with the narration," Dean admitted, the picture of reluctance, "although you know that accounts are always blurry after the fact, especially where our kind of encounters are concerned."
Since there was nothing Sam could say to that, he let the matter drop and returned to the original discussion. "Mel hit the description of a demon on the head: black eyes, enhanced strength, knowledge of our real names. Enough to let us know that we were the intended targets."
"At least of the two demons," Dean quantified as he thought back over what they'd been told.
Sam nodded. "And it looks like one of them is a practitioner—if she was going toe-to-toe with that first guy Mel described—which means we're going to have to be extra careful. The standard exorcism might not be enough."
"But at least that's something we're familiar with," Dean countered, turning carefully so he could lean against the wall. "The other guy, the one with the white eyes, you ever heard of anything like that before?"
Sam sighed heavily, face narrowing as he focused. "No."
"Me either, but I'll bet he has something to do with this weather," Dean said, gesturing at the wintery chaos next to him. His tone was flooded with a skeptical certainty, the urge to leap to a somewhat logical conclusion tempered by past experiences of being burned by rushing to assumptions.
"If not,' it's a pretty big coincidence. Two supernatural creatures go at it and right after, the weather starts acting up?" Sam's face was equally skeptical, his voice incredulous.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, "I don't think so, either, although it might not have been him. We've seen demons with powers before, like Meg or the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Could be that whoever tracked us here is trying to keep us from leaving."
"Or an unrelated third party we haven't seen yet," Sam said gloomily, bowl and dishtowel long-since forgotten as he stared outside.
"Right. Thor's on a rampage, in Michigan, in September, because he's tired of doing it in Iceland where everybody's like 'Whatever. More snow. Big deal.'" Dean really wished he could sigh. "Dude, this sucks."
"Yup," Sam said as he turned to head back to the kitchen, Dean trailing behind him. Leaning down, Sam opened a cupboard to put the bowl away, causing Dean to smirk at how quickly his little brother had picked up where everything belonged. "How about we focus on what we do know and go from there?"
"Right," Dean said, moving back to the table where he grabbed the chair Mel had been using and sat down carefully, bracing himself on the smooth, recently cleaned table surface. "Demons. Salt, holy water, devil's trap, and an exorcism ritual with all the trimmings. Our standard trap 'em and send 'em packing back to hell."
"Unless she's too powerful," Sam reminded him as he began draining the last of the water from the sink. "In which case, we're going to need to do some research. Maybe Bobby would know."
"Aw, crap," Dean said, hand flying to his pocket in search of his phone. "Bobby." In the midst of everything, they had forgotten their original intent in driving through this area: heading to help Bobby with a vampire problem. Normally, when they were converging on a hunt like this, Bobby liked to keep close tabs on the boys, contact every day or so, and the 24 hour blackout had to be driving the older man crazy. Sometimes, Dean thought as he looked for the missing mobile, the man could be worse than Sam when it came to worrying.
When his search came up empty, Dean started to get out of the chair, forgetting about his ribs in his haste, and he bit back a moan as his vision darkened for a moment, causing him to freeze halfway up, hunched over like an old man, gasping for breath. The whole being laid up routine was really starting to get to him, he though hazily as intense spikes of pain shot through him. At the same time, another part of him prayed fervently that Sam wouldn't notice this latest episode.
A moment later, in an unusual serendipitous moment, Dean's wish was granted as a thunderous crash resonated throughout the apartment, shaking it to its very foundations. Dean's body tensed further under the vibrating onslaught, which was followed almost immediately by a second impact. This one, it seemed, was successful as it was accompanied by a whip-like crack at the end and a terrified scream from the vicinity of the bedroom.
I'm sorry for the delay in updating, everyone. It's getting to be that time of year, so while I'm going to try to stick to my schedule of weekly updates, I'm afraid I can't guarantee anything.
The reviews help quite a bit in propelling me forward—a good guilt trip usually does—and I wanted to thank deewinchester, dreamlitnight, nexus432, friendly, and JenF for their comments and support. You guys make my day!