Strange Angels
This is set sometime after the end of Season 1. While it doesn't break canon to my knowledge, it is definitely AU. The Winchesters survived – John is off searching for more information on the demon, and the boys have just fought a succubus in Litchfield, WI. While fighting the succubus, they have an altercation with the Circle of Enoch, a mysterious group looking for Sam. And they learn some startling news about their heritage from a girl neither of them should trust.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Charlotte Webb
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine. The Colt isn't mine. Wish the car was mine. But I can only blame myself for the Circle of Enoch.
Rating: T (Strong language, graphic descriptions and mild adult situations. Not to mention, more shirtless Dean; I'm all about the Winchester fan service.)
Summary: Being tied up with nowhere to go is the perfect opportunity for a grammar lesson.
Feedback: Absolutely!
Miscellaneous: This chapter has been significantly revised from the original posting. Special thanks to JMM0001 for continuing to thwack me with a stick – I am but a poor, grateful padawan. I would also be remiss by not crediting Raven9 with the best joke in the entire chapter. (See the grammar lesson above.) Lastly, although by no means least, kudos goes to crysodenkirk for assisting a rusty Latin scholar and ensuring that Charlotte's translations are accurate. Both JMM0001 and Raven9 acted as betas for this chapter. As always, the good parts are because of them. The bad parts are all me.
Chapter Three: Burning Inside
Screwing Dean Winchester in the back of a crappy old car was so far removed from Charlotte's definition of plan that she hadn't seen it coming.
She followed every step she devised, down to the letter. Her plan was to stay out of Alex's way long enough to slip Sam Winchester a book bag full of notes and disappear. Charlotte kept it simple, relying on herself for the actual trade-off. She defined an entry point and exit criteria, working with one of the student bartenders to sneak in her things and hide them behind the booth. Charlotte knew which local bus to catch to get to the Greyhound station – the bus stop was three blocks down, and you couldn't find it unless you were looking for it. When she told Sam Winchester she was good at disappearing, Charlotte meant it. She began planning her escape when she was nine, carefully cultivating her silence so that not speaking was simply a prelude to not being there.
The escape was all that mattered – waiting for the perfect opportunity, patiently silent as the Council made its plans. The Council used the Circle of Enoch as its own personal army, and had no use for her. Charlotte Webb wasn't a warrior; she possessed neither Alex's gift with the sword nor Meg's gift with magic, pulled from blood. She did not have Daniel's preternatural grace or Allison's cold facility with the elements. Her gift was unimportant, impractical to their purpose. Allison's taunts still haunted her – You can't make someone cry to death. As if the killing was the important thing. They would kill soon enough when Shemhezai rose, taking their place within the Twelve. So would she, if she stayed.
But Charlotte had plans and Charlotte had patience.
And Charlotte had dreams.
Dreams of a handsome young man – with Sam Winchester's dancing eyes – standing with an array of equally beautiful people. Sam Winchester's face laughing as the world burned. Dreams of Sam's broken body laying before a white altar – the same handsome face, shattered in an all-consuming fire. Her body, healed and whole, lying underneath Sam Winchester's – Armaros inflamed, one of six consorts to Shemhezai. Mothers of legions. Death wrapped in a gentle touch, pain pulled from blood. Her gift was practical. She could kill. Her dreams provided proof and her dreams provided instruction. It was simply a matter of falling into his destiny, hand-in-hand with the smile that unleashed Armageddon.
She had other dreams. Normal dreams – like finishing her Linguistics doctorate or working out to build her stamina. There was a brown-eyed man she dreamed of marrying; all Charlotte had to do was say 'yes' to Miles Kincaid. She even had a wedding dress in mind, something simple that hid her arms. Charlotte dreamed about her daughter, a little red-headed girl with curly hair and the prettiest eyes Charlotte had ever seen. Charlotte dreamed of taking voice lessons – even though she knew they'd never help – and opening up her own dance club with Jimmy. It really didn't matter what she did, so long as it was normal. So long as it happened in a world without demons.
Sam Winchester was the key.
The Council wanted to retrieve him, to train him to call Shemhezai and lead the Betrayers in breaking the Seal. The day was coming when Sam Winchester would fully Awaken, and he would rival the Grigori themselves. And the Council never realized that its hold on the Circle of Enoch was slipping away – there were Defectors living within their midst. The Circle of Enoch still contained those who were true to the old ways, to the belief that their blood was a call to service; that the Nephilim were Chosen by God and Called to protect humanity. Men like Jacob Morrison, who understood that Shemhezai's power could save the world from its breaking; Sam Winchester was the ultimate fulfillment of that sacred bond, with powers given to withstand the Grigori by God himself – not to become one.
Charlotte's objective was to get out alive.
When Alex Masters pocketed the keys to the van, the plan was still salvageable; Charlotte had no less than three viable excuses for getting them. What Charlotte hadn't planned for was Dean Winchester. The way his eyes looked when she mentioned her father, the smell of the fire that wafted from him. A little boy's memory of the hardest day. The cleverness of him. How he would willingly sacrifice himself to save his little brother, shredded apart by a demon simply to give Sam Winchester the space to run. The feel of his teeth on the sensitive hollows of her neck. Hazel eyes, fierce and ravenous. Or the snarky grin she wanted to smack off his face.
Charlotte hadn't planned on him at all.
Even Sam Winchester – the one person integral to the plan, the piece on which everyone had gambled – was an unknown factor. Maybe it was simply blood calling blood, the song of angels within them all, that made Sam Winchester want to help her. But Charlotte's disappearance was part of the plan. Her role was to give Sam the information he needed to know, and then bow to the audience – exiting stage left.
Except Sam Winchester pulled her back onto the stage.
Just in time for a standing ovation from his older brother. In the back of a behemoth of a car. She was no longer Charlotte, instead becoming a thing with no shame and no self-control – a loose-limbed jumble of desire and urgency, riding as hard as she could. And that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part wasn't waking up with her arms and legs securely tied and feeling like a walking bruise. It wasn't that the wound from the succubus was caked with blood against the bandage someone had slapped on it – and it was still scalding. The worst part was the fact that she couldn't get the taste of Dean Winchester out of her mouth, and her hands still felt like she was scratching his back – she could feel the weight of him underneath her nails. Once she started touching him, it was like a drug. Charlotte didn't want to stop.
Charlotte opened her eyes. She was laying on her left side, cheek resting on a musty pillow. The wallpaper – a green and pink abstract design – screamed cheap motel room. Dean Winchester was propped up against the headboard of the bed next to hers, wearing nothing but a pair of faded boxer shorts; his hands and legs were likewise bound. Each claw mark was swollen, yellow-white with pus – his skin around the wounds an angry crimson. His younger brother was slicing into the bottom gash with a straight razor, pus mixing with blood that he wiped away with a towel. The smell of the seepage was vile, marked with the succubus' rot.
Dean's stomach contracted, muscles rippling. Charlotte could sense the pressure inside him, coupled with the urge to begin licking the sweat that was glistening on his chest. Nausea won over lust and she started dry-heaving. Charlotte took that as a sign that the poison was finally subsiding – until the full weight of those hazel eyes settled on her.
Dean Winchester was a beautiful man – even when he was bruised and bloody. The kind of man who wouldn't have looked twice at her if the Circle hadn't let a succubus loose at Emerson College. He was annoyingly confident – Dean Winchester knew he was pretty and exactly what it could do for him – but Charlotte had to admit she'd never have someone like that ever kiss her again. Frustration itched through her. She needed to be biting those lips.
"How come she gets to wear pajamas and I'm laying around in my underwear?" The boxer shorts failed to hide Dean's erection; the man was almost defiant towards his body's physical response, daring it to go even farther. If his brother hadn't had the foresight to tie both of them up, Dean Winchester's hands would be all over her again. A part of her hated Sam Winchester. "Hey! Granny Girl is awake!" OK, not so much…
Charlotte focused her eyes downward. She was dressed in a pair of her own pajamas – long sleeves and full-length pants, the ones with the blue and white stripes on them. Sam Winchester must have changed her clothes while he was dressing her wounds. That made sense – between being covered in demon bits and Dean ripping her clothes in the Impala. She fought the urge to blush; not putting on underwear had been a kindness on Sam's part given the nature of the wounds but he had seen everything. Even more than his brother saw. The scars. Sam Winchester had seen her scars – and he had the kindness to ensure that no one else did. Jacob was right. There was still hope.
"Those are your pajamas, doofus." Sam's voice was weary. Sunlight peeked through the curtains; he had taken care of them throughout the night. "Are you okay?" He turned to look at her. Charlotte was struck by how young he seemed and how open he was with his care; Sam Winchester was not a man who carefully guarded his emotions. "Do you need some water, uh…"
"Charlotte." Her voice was steadier than she expected it to be. "And no thank you." She wasn't going to put anything in her body until Sam was done lancing all of the wounds. "But maybe we should open the window?"
"Deal with it, bitch!" Dean's hazel eyes glittered, anger smashing into her. "You're the reason we're in this mess to begin with." And while it wasn't exactly true, Charlotte was too tired to argue with him. "You and that asshole from the bar!"
"Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Let it go." He waited a moment, looking at his older brother with the same calm expression he had used on her. Dean turned his head to look back towards the wall, ignoring her completely, while Sam cracked open the window. The air outside smelled stale, lifeless – but it smelled better than the stench coming from their wounds. "We agreed on this."
"We did not, dude!" Dean's voice was low, and Charlotte knew most of that anger was directed at her. Sam was just the obvious target. "I'm hog-tied like a Texas Longhorn. How the hell could I agree to anything?"
"There's a moral to this story, Dean." Sam grinned.
His older brother grunted. "Enlighten me, Haley Joel."
"Maybe next time you'll learn to keep it in your pants." The youngest Winchester chuckled, clearly amused at his own joke.
"She bewitched me, Sammy!" Dean was completely serious. "You know what they say about all true red-heads being witches." Which was an interesting theory in itself – but nothing beyond anecdotal evidence suggested a correlation between magical ability and hair color. Not that Charlotte was going to point that out to Dean Winchester. Where the hell did that come from? "And she's got some mojo that makes you feel sorry for her."
Charlotte's eyes widened – Dean Winchester sensed her gift. That meant one thing; she was not the only empath the current generation had produced. Not even a telepath could sense the exercise of her gifts – and Jacob had tried, throwing every trick in his arsenal at her to catch her off-guard. Her facility at hiding was probably why he approached her in the first place, since the man had never forgiven her mother for the heartbreak Celeste Webb had caused. And given what had happened in the back of his car, the total loss of self-control – it was a textbook example of two empaths feeding off of each other, causing a loop that spiraled their gifts out of control. If empathy was something you could learn from a textbook. Idiot!
"I blew up a demon with my brain," Sam replied. "I'm not worried about her mojo." There was sadness in his voice; even though it had been necessary, Sam Winchester did not enjoy exercising his power. And more was coming as he continued to Awaken. Sam needed a teacher, someone who could teach him control and to maintain his sense of being, but all Charlotte could give him was a book bag full of research notes. "Are you ready for the next one?"
Dean nodded. "Just do it, already!"
"You are such a freak." Sam snorted, positioning himself to work on the next gash.
She laughed, a little self-deprecating laugh that mimicked the one her mother used all the time; Charlotte's dying mother, haunted by her sins – with no one left to forgive her; like she knew the joke was on her. Charlotte couldn't help it. She had come up with a foolproof plan, one that let her live her own life. On her own terms. A normal life with Miles Kincaid. And she had messed it up. Charlotte had no doubt that Alex's mission now included finding her along with the Winchesters, merely to exact the punishment for her interference in the Awakening. Which was bad enough – it was hard to live a conventional life when you were dead. But she had really mucked it up by getting poisoned by a succubus and acting like a hoochie mama in the back of a car.
Her laugh caught Dean's attention. "What's so funny, Granny Girl?" He wiggled his hips at her. "Maybe you're still thinking about Mr. Happy?" Charlotte choked in mid-laugh. Dean Winchester had named his penis. Dear God…
"Dean!" Sam interjected. "Do you want me to accidentally cut you? Because if you do, go ahead and continue flirting with the chick." His voice was stern. "Otherwise, keep your mouth shut." A wild look around the edges of Sam Winchester's eyes marked the realization that his brother not only came up with snappy pet names for people, Dean even had one for his own genitalia.
"She wants me, Sammy." Dean grinned.
Dean Winchester was right. Even the lingering smell of his leather jacket in her memory, intermingled with his sweat, was enough to revitalize the poison's effect. Charlotte heard the intake of his breath, and felt the phantom slice of the razor on her own chest. When the putrid reek became too strong, Charlotte resorted to those memories – the smell of his skin underneath her fingers. The taste of him. The blood. And the way she felt when her body strained to meet his – trembling towards its own destruction.
Dean grunted, a stabbing ache erupting in his chest. Charlotte gasped – she felt tweezers stick into her flesh, pulling out a sliver of the demon's claw. The poison was strong, with a preternatural component that enhanced their gifts; even with an empath, she shouldn't be sharing physical sensations. And it hurt. The body resisted, trying to hold onto the sliver of the claw; the hunter screamed as his little brother worked the sliver from the wound. Sam started to choke from the stench – and she could feel Dean's muscles contracting again.
"Dean," Sam gagged. "I need you to relax."
"Just get it out!" The panic in the hunter's voice was a real thing, cutting through the rot in the room. "Get it out!"
"Damn it!" Sam lost his grip on the tweezers. Charlotte watched as the sliver burrowed its way back into the swollen wound. "What the hell?" He was frowning. "It's the source of the poison, Dean. I have to get it out."
"No shit, Sherlock. I figured that out myself." Dean grunted. "That what we sent you to college for?" His shoulder was on fire. It felt like her mother's whole body when the cancer spread – and Charlotte wasn't even trying to share the pain. "What's the problem?"
The back of Charlotte's head started to tingle, right above the neck. Oh, no. It was the Call. Someone needed her help. She didn't even have to close her eyes, to catch the vision – the need to place her hands on Dean Winchester was so strong, Charlotte was surprised she hadn't called the Ziv Zakai. She blinked, trying to focus. There was no way in hell she was opening herself up to Dean Winchester, blood or not. She'd helped him once, taken in by the look of a son who had lost his mother, and she ended up screwed. Literally.
"It doesn't want to come out." Sam took a step back from the bed. He set the tweezers down on the towel with the first aid supplies, and picked up a leather bound journal.
Dean was indignant. "What do you mean it doesn't want to come out? Jesus Christ, Sammy!" She couldn't take her eyes off him; the ache in his chest seemed to shift along his torso, angry reds and purples. Charlotte had never seen pain before. She had shared it often enough, with a touch and a whisper – but nothing like this had ever happened; no echo in someone's memory, nothing to study in a book as a guide. There were tendrils already reaching out to her. Charlotte threw up her outermost shield, watched them bounce and snap back into Dean with a wince.
"It's causing damage to the wound when I pull it out. This could seriously hurt, man." Sam flipped through the journal in his hands, and then looked down at a reference book he had set up next to the first aid supplies. "And we don't have any painkillers strong enough to deal with it."
"What do we have?" His older brother asked.
"Ibuprofen. A little Darvon."
Oh, no. And there was something Sam wasn't adding. That sliver had to come out because it was the source of the poison. Without something to deaden the pain, it would get worse. A lot worse. Without a way to take the edge off, work out the energies roiling through Dean Winchester, he would die. And that's when she heard it, a soft voice unrecognized in the back of her head. A woman's voice. Help him.
Charlotte whimpered. What had she done, colliding into Dean Winchester? This must be what going mad feels like. Completely ignored, listening to voices in your head while two men talk about medicinal supplies.
"We were supposed to restock after taking out the succubus." Dean looked at his brother, squaring his shoulders. Charlotte knew he was a brave bastard, had seen the thrilling heroics in action – and the lack of both replaced by resignation was a cutting rebuke. He didn't even have to look at her. "Do we have antibiotics?"
Sam nodded. "We're good, there." He frowned. "But I'm worried you're going to need a transfusion as badly as that thing was bleeding, Dean. It cuts into you every time you move."
Dean returned his brother's frown with a grimace of his own. "Then we pull it out quick. Only way, little brother." He tried to rally, pulling out some of his former bravado with a cocky grin. "That sex bitch isn't strong enough to take me down, Sam." They all ignored the little catch in his voice.
Help him.
"There's got to be another way." Sam put the journal on top of the reference book, and began flipping pages in both. It was a fruitless search – Charlotte knew what needed to be done. A woman called in the back of her head, begging for her help – a plea accompanied by the itching need in Charlotte's fingers. Another tendril slammed into her shield, more forceful than the one before. She denied them both. If she opened herself up to him, Dean Winchester would suck her dry.
Charlotte's throat exploded with a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. The smell of blood, intermingled with the pus oozing out of Dean's wounds, was enough to start another round of dry-heaving. All she wanted to do was lay her head down on the pillow and close her eyes, but Charlotte knew that would slam the vision back into her brain faster than anything – faster than the light screeching against her eyelids, the ripped tatters of herself bursting at the seams. A little boy. And a fire. And a baby in his arms.
Help him.
"Shut up." The back of her head was on fire, and Charlotte pulled the tatters around herself as quickly as the vision had flung her open. "I won't."
"Hey there, School Girl, do you mind not talking to yourself? My little brother is thinking." Charlotte realized she had spoken out loud only when Dean Winchester, snarky bastard, deigned to respond. "Sammy, I know she's crazier than a fruit bat, but maybe she's got some answers."
Sam looked up from the journal. "Leave her out of this, Dean."
"Yeah, Charlotte Webb is a real innocent." Dean snorted. "She was just drinking beer with that asshole." He grinned again. "No one would name their kid after a book like that unless they had something in for their own flesh and blood." His hazel eyes bore into her face. "My father had an interesting sense of humor." It was a fair imitation. "Do people actually buy that line?"
Help him.
"Go to hell." His head snapped back like she'd smacked him, but Charlotte didn't know if she was talking to Dean Winchester or the voice in her head. The bastard could burn all night for all she cared. "That's my real name, Dean Ables."
"Didn't you tell me she knocked you down? I think she was trying to save you." Sam returned his older brother's snort with one of his own. "Those claw marks on her back aren't just for show. She's coming out of this thing with a whole new set of scars!" The words were out before he could stop himself, and Sam Winchester was suddenly looking at her apologetically. Don't explain. She shook her head, tried to let him know that it was all right. Just drop it. Charlotte had scars.
Dean's brow furrowed; it was an answer he didn't expect. Charlotte could see him processing the thought – and then stop, shrugging his shoulders. It didn't matter. He shot a cocky grin at his younger brother. "She couldn't resist. I'm a Winchester, Sammy."
"You should get that tattooed on your hand," Charlotte returned. "That way when you're trying to pick up someone, you can remember your real name." It was getting easier to ignore the voice in her head; Charlotte turned off the pity, focusing on the arrogance. Dean Winchester deserved every cut. But not the fire. Never the fire.
Even her own brain had started to rebel against her.
"You're right, Dean. She's totally into you." Sam rolled his eyes – sarcasm was genetic in the Winchester family. Frowning, he slammed the book shut. "According to Dad's journal and the other stuff I've read, the claws are covered in poison – we have to get it out if we have any shot in hell of neutralizing it." Before you die. Charlotte sensed that so strongly, it came out as thought. She'd never experienced that before, either – like the connection with Dean Winchester had made everything more sensitive. Sam brushed the hair out of his eyes. "I think I need to go in with a knife."
"It hurts, Sammy." Dean did nothing to mask the pain in his voice. Charlotte closed her eyes. A little boy. And a fire. And a baby in his arms.
Help him.
"I've got to do it this way." Charlotte heard something rustling in the first aid kit, Sam's frustration at the situation as sharp an emotion as Dean's pain. Both shot through her – knocking her on the inside, where they couldn't see the hairs standing on the back of her neck.
Help them.
Charlotte's eyes snapped open. That wasn't a woman's voice. It was the one voice she had always obeyed, the one voice she could never refuse. And now the one voice she hated to hear, alone in her head. A little girl. And a fire. And the arms that made her watch. "Wait!" Charlotte cried, more loudly than she intended. Sam was leaning over Dean, a surgical scalpel in his hand. It was shaking.
"Do you mind?" Dean interjected. It was hard to see beyond the little boy in his eyes, and the fire that was always inside of him. Burning each night, alone in his head. "Sooner we get started, sooner I get tequila."
"Have you tried the purification ritual on him?" It was the only question Charlotte could think to ask. Sam's answer would show whether or not her faith was misplaced, or if Jacob had overestimated him. The ritual was the next obvious step. Anything to keep from actually opening her shields up to that pain, and the little boy burning inside of Dean Winchester.
Sam grinned. "That was you, wasn't it? The one who marked the purification ritual for me." It was hard not to return that smile. Sam Winchester had an infectious charm all his own that made you think that slipping a bookmark into a spell book was the smartest thing you had ever done in your life. "I performed it on both of you." He looked at her thoughtfully. "It worked on you, but I think the sliver is interfering with the spell."
Charlotte frowned. It made sense. A secondary focus. "So it needs to come out." Another thought occurred to her – it was amazing how agile the brain could become when fighting against the obvious conclusion. "I wonder if there's another spell in the book that we can use? Something that deadens pain or helps with a healing."
"You red-haired witch!" Dean Winchester was one angry son of a bitch. "You're killing me, Sammy – you healed some floozie who almost banged me on the dance floor of a bar! I'm your flesh and blood!" His hazel eyes were wild, and another tendril bashed into her shield. "And now you're planning on trusting her. With magic? Jesus Christ, Sam!" It got through, ripping right inside her. "Do you remember that crazy Zoroastrian chick?"
"If Charlotte says it will save your life, I'll run naked through Milwaukee." Sam rolled his eyes. "You've got a better idea?"
Help him.
"Get the tequila now." Dean was leaning forward, a gleeful expression on his face – the anger at his brother now transferred to her. "You can't pull the wool over this Winchester, bitch!" Another tendril ripped through her shields. He was strong. Charlotte had to stop him.
Charlotte focused her eyes on Dean – pushing past the desire to straddle him and scream until they were both hoarse. "Untie me." Her voice was steady, and Charlotte smiled at Sam Winchester. "I'm sure there's a spell in there we can use." Dean Winchester was too far gone with the effects of the poison to be reasoned with – just as full of bravado as any Circle-trained warrior, and twice as stupid. That's not fair. She could make Sam Winchester help her with a smile. There's another way. This was what she had been trained to do – to calm their fears, to persuade where force was unnecessary. All Charlotte had to do was convince Sam. "I can help."
"Don't trust her, man. She wants to jump me." Dean Winchester said it like every woman wanted to jump him – the same way someone else might say the grass was green or that milk chocolate was sweet. "She's doing that whole mojo thing that she did back in the bar."
"You're sensing that?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Stupid Charlotte. He was untrained, using nothing but instinct. Even though Dean Winchester was burning inside, he was still powerful enough – sensitive enough – to pick up on what she was doing. But Sam had believed her despite Dean's misgivings until she opened her big mouth. Focus! Sam stared at her with marked distrust. It fought with something else, but Charlotte was too tired and sore to figure out what it was.
Dean Winchester was probably one of the strongest natural empaths the Nephilim had ever known. She couldn't even bring herself to be jealous of that power – every feeling scratching into his bones.
Help him.
Oh, no. That would require an amendment to the plan. Dean had gotten through life without a teacher; he'd last without her help. She owed the Winchesters something for getting her away from Alex Masters. But not that. Charlotte was still a student – and she'd smack him within the first fifteen minutes.
"Don't play a player." There was another sarcastic smirk on Dean's face when he said it. Charlotte glared at him, part of her knowing it was their connection. The other parts didn't care. Prick! Dean flinched at that thought, and then looked her right in the eye. "Christo!" He glowered at her, a dare to react in his sneer. "I said Christo, bitch!"
Don't play a player? Charlotte rolled her eyes. How could the man be such an ass when she had already given in? She was going to help him get through the night so she could leave in the morning – but there he was trying to exorcise her for the third time. "Tuus malus de locutio est."
Dean held up both hands to ward himself, momentarily forgetting they were still locked at the wrist. "What the fuck are you saying?" Instinct.
"Exactly!" Charlotte was triumphant. "Maybe you'd actually strike fear in the hearts of demons, Dean Winchester, if your Latin didn't suck." The expression on his face was worth a hundred attacks by a legion of angry succubi – even if it meant she would have to screw him in the back of a car for centuries. "Who taught you noun declension? You've been yelling 'to Christ' at me all night. Next time, use the nominative case." She pulled up a fair rendition of his cocky grin. It was fun beating Dean Winchester at his own game. "Christus. Not Christo."
"She's got you there, Dean." Sam chuckled. He was enjoying the exchange. "Your Latin sucks."
Dean whipped his head towards Sam. "You're the one who told me to use Christo, man. What's the difference? Christo. Christus. It gets the job done."
"It's sloppy!" Charlotte started shivering. The shield was down, battered and torn by his anger. "And it's insulting."
"To the demons?" Dean looked incredulous. Under other circumstances, the expression would have been amusing – hazel eyes round, like you could knock him down simply by blowing on him. "You are from Planet Crack!"
She rolled her eyes. "To the people who actually speak the languages you butcher." Dean Winchester hurt too god damn much to try to be reasonable with him – reds and purples bouncing through them both. And Charlotte could give as good as she got. "Any time you open your mouth, I'd imagine."
"You bitch! I can't believe I fucked you in my car!" Dean Winchester's nostrils flared – the same look he gave her back in Alfie's, right after their first failed attempt at an exorcism.
Charlotte snorted. "And I can't believe I let myself get fucked in that piece of crap!" He acted like screwing him in the back of his crappy old car was a privilege that women stood in line for, like every red-blooded heterosexual female wanted a crack at Dean Winchester.
"Oh, that's it!" Dean started wriggling himself off the bed. "No one insults my baby and gets away with it." She received a spark of him washing the car, lovingly caressing it with a towel. Buffing on the wax. The Dean Winchester in her head caressed that car more gently than most men touched their girlfriends.
"Somebody shoot me." Charlotte meant it. Dean Winchester had a pet name for his car. Bloody hell.
"You heard her, Sammy!" Dean howled at his little brother. "Untie me and give me a freaking gun!" And at that moment, Charlotte had no doubt that he would shoot her. Given the opportunity, she'd slam her fingers into the oozing wounds on his chest – simply to watch him squirm. Even knowing she'd feel it.
Help him.
"Will you two shut up?" Sam's voice roared throughout the room. "No one got fucked." They both looked at him, shocked into silence. "I shot you with tranquilizers." Charlotte closed her mouth – in all her visions, she had only seen that expression when the Twelve walked behind him and the world was lost. Because of me. The moment passed quickly; Sam's eyes softened and he sighed. He's still Awakening because of my stupid plan. "Although I think if someone is fucked, it's me." But he looked like Sam Winchester again, which was better than Awakening in the middle of a motel room – getting stared at by your mostly naked brother and a strange girl in blue-striped pajamas.
"What's going on?" Sam was looking right at her, frowning. "How do you go from Sane Girl to some chick screaming at my brother like a fishwife?" Fair question. Charlotte had lost control over her own emotions. All of it. That never happened before she met the Winchesters. Dean's chuckle was cut short when Sam glared at him.
Charlotte wasn't just screwed; the succubus had fucked her brain screaming sideways. God, I'm beginning to think like him. Even Sam Winchester – who wasn't an empath, regardless of what he was becoming – could sense it. Should she mention the voices in her head, telling her to help them both? Dean already thought she was crazier than a fruit bat. Charlotte didn't have the strength to fight the voices anymore. And for the second time in her life, truth seemed like a viable option.
"Your brother is an empath." Telling the truth was easier the more she practiced it. Charlotte didn't even have to steel herself for their reactions, like she had in the back of the car.
"What?" Both Winchesters said it simultaneously. Sam looked amused, but Dean seemed edgy. Charlotte hadn't expected either of them to believer her, but Dean was eyeing her like she had hooked her fingers into more than his jeans – she had found out his secret. A little boy. And a fire. And a baby in his arms
"An empath." She shook her head. Charlotte gritted her teeth – it was a basic lesson. No wonder the voices in her head wanted her to help them, despite the fact that she was leaving in the morning. The Winchesters had no clue about the world they actually walked in, for all that they killed monsters for a living. Demons walked the earth, and the children of angels defended the world against them – endowed with gifts to withstand the Grigori. "He's attuned to other people's emotions, feeling what they feel."
"Right." It was Sam Winchester's turn to be a snarky bastard. "I know what it means." If Charlotte had any doubts about their relationship, the grin on his face would have rescinded them. "I'm just trying to figure out why you'd pick empathy out of any psychic gift you could give my brother." Sarcasm was definitely genetic. "Please don't tell me that it was the first thing that popped into your head after Dean kissed you."
"You're a hypocrite, Sam Winchester." Charlotte shook her head, more tingling above her neck. God damn gift. "You can blow up demons using your brain, but that doesn't mean you hold the monopoly on psychic gifts in your family." Dean's hazel eyes widened when she said that. Charlotte didn't even want to defend him, but the gift compelled necessary truths – even when she'd rather melt into the wall. "You might be powerful, but you're untrained." Don't go there. "I'm not." Crap.
"Dean's got the sensitivity of a stick!" Sam chuckled.
"Empathy doesn't require you to be sympathetic," Charlotte returned. And Sam Winchester had no idea how sensitive his older brother really was, underneath the thick skin and countless defense mechanisms. A little boy. And a fire. And a baby in his arms. "In fact, it's probably easier if you're insensitive. That way you can do what needs to be done, without worrying about how other people feel about it." It was blunt, but there it was.
"OK, I'll bite." Sam shook his shaggy head ruefully, stifling a chuckle. "How did you figure out Dean was an empath?"
"The same way I figured out you were telekinetic," Charlotte snapped. "I watched you blow up a demon." Was every Winchester male an ass? "I've spent the last twenty years being trained by the Circle to control my gift." She saw herself pulling Dean Winchester's shirt over his head, nails raking his back. Her body arching into his, with eyes as fierce and ravenous as the ones looking at her. And you're doing such a bang-up job with that, Charlotte. She shook her head. "I can recognize my own gift when I see it being used." Just not immediately. They didn't need to know that.
Neither Winchester responded to that, although Sam looked skeptical. Dean looked like a deer caught in headlights for one fleeting second before he shook his head, smart-ass smirk back on his face. She sighed. In for a penny... "No one knew your brother was gifted, Sam. The Circle had no clue – that's how he caught me off-guard back at Alfie's." And Dean looked at her with the eyes of a son who lost his mother. "I think our gifts short-circuited each other, causing a feedback loop." Charlotte flushed. That explained why he thought she was the succubus – Granny Girls didn't do it for Dean Winchester.
Help him.
I'm trying, damn it!
"So why not just block yourself?" Sam asked. "Given how highly trained you are." He was torn between being pissed off and the same natural curiosity which kept him asking questions about the Nephilim in the Impala. Charlotte couldn't really blame him; he was riding on the thin edge of exhaustion, worried about his brother and stuck in the middle of the world's worst nightmare.
"I've tried." She wished she could pick herself up; it was difficult carrying on conversations when you were lying on your stomach. "But I can't block him out." Charlotte flushed. "His emotions are strong." Another vision of them in the back of Impala wracked shot through her – despite what Sam Winchester said, she could feel Dean. Taste him. Smell him. Inside. "Especially when sex is involved."
"Especially when sex is involved?" Sam snickered. "Tell me something I don't know!" He looked at Charlotte, his blue eyes widening. "I almost believed you but Dean was right. You are a player." Sam gave an unrepentant shake of his disheveled head. "Empath," he muttered.
It was time to try another tactic – laying there wishing Dean Winchester was pinning her to the mattress was not going to convince either of them she was telling the truth. No matter how beautiful he was. "A succubus uses sympathetic sex magic," Charlotte said. Hopefully they would understand that – it was Demonology 101.
Dean grunted. "We know." They did – the shared look between them was obvious. Amateur. Even an insult – unless they believed she was too obtuse to see it. Stupid Charlotte. She had to stop assuming they knew nothing about the world they lived in, despite how little they knew about the Circle of Enoch. Their true calling. They had survived without their gifts."So what's your point?"
"My point is that the poison was her primary focus. But with the sliver, you're still vulnerable. Even though she's dead, you're emotionally out of control with an outrageous sex drive. Because that secondary focus is still inside of you." Charlotte's voice caught – she felt Dean's hands on her again, his ring cold against her thigh. She swallowed, flushing as she glanced at him. "You've ripped open every shield I put up, so I can't keep your emotions out. You get agitated, I get agitated. But the connection should go both ways." If Dean Winchester calmed down enough to let her help him. If he believed me. "I can influence you just enough for Sam to get the sliver out by reducing the pain."
"Reducing the pain?" It was Sam's question, but Dean looked more interested in the answer.
Charlotte grimaced. "I'll share it." But just the pain. Help him. Not the fire. That was Dean Winchester's burden to bear; Charlotte Webb had her own night that she carried, close to her heart. A little girl. And a fire. And the arms that made her watch. She lived with it. So could he.
"And then I can perform the purification ritual." Sam looked at her thoughtfully, nodding again. He smiled at her like she was a hero.
Charlotte blushed. "That's the plan." Or an amendment to the plan, at any rate. And I hope it works. I don't want Dean Winchester in my head while I'm trying to sleep on a bus.
"That assumes there's actually a connection between us," Dean countered. "How do I know this isn't part of the Circle's plan to get Sammy – knock me out of commission with a spell? Send a cute chick after me so I won't suspect her." Charlotte's eyes widened – that's how the Winchesters survived. A good dose of paranoia and an uncanny cleverness you didn't expect.
Cute?
"You want me to prove it to you?" Charlotte shook her head. She felt him on top of her, biting her neck, as she pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans. If that wasn't proof of a connection – two strangers in the back of a car, screaming towards annihilation – she didn't know how else to prove it to him.
There's the secret.
A little boy. And a fire. And the baby in his arms.
It's the only way.
No, it's not. Charlotte knew exactly what would happen the moment she opened that door. I'm doing this my way. Dean Winchester could relive that night without her. She frowned. "Granny sweaters don't turn you on." When in doubt, appeal to the man's overactive libido.
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Sam asked.
"I'm not your brother's type," Charlotte retorted. Send a cute chick so I won't suspect her. "That's why he thought I was the succubus the first time he tried to kiss me." It was probably inhumanly possible to blush harder.
"Dean doesn't have types," Sam returned. "He's an equal opportunity womanizer." He shrugged his shoulders. "Unless you count the Catholic school girl fetish."
Charlotte chose to ignore that, but she couldn't keep herself from looking at Dean. He said nothing – just continued looking at her like she was freak. Help him. That damn voice was beginning to piss her off. There's the secret. And there was a way to use it without hurting either of them.
"I know your secret, Dean Winchester." It was the best she could come up with on short notice, getting stared at by a man she still wanted to straddle. Focus, Charlotte.
"Yeah?" Dean snorted. "I'm all ears, sweetheart." He leaned back against the headboard of the bed, a smile on his face.
"A little boy," Charlotte returned. She could see him, sitting with a little baby in his arms. Sam. Watching the fire. Feeling his mother burn. Feeling his mother die. "And a fire." Dean's eyes clouded over, and something glimmered across his face that broke the smile. Only for a second. "And the baby in his arms."
"Pretty clever," Dean replied. He looked faintly impressed, and the beam dropped from his eyes. "She's really got powerful mojo, Sammy. If I couldn't see her working it, I'd believe her."
That's because I'm connected to you, idiot!
"But anyone doing research on our family would know that." Sam Winchester just looked bored. "There was a picture in the newspaper about the fire."
Dean nodded. "I made the third page." His smile was a mask; he was burning inside – and he knew Charlotte was telling the truth. The damn man could sense everything else. "So you want me to believe you?"
"Don't make me do it, Dean!" Charlotte knew it was inevitable – should have known the vision would force her to this point. She was Called and she was Chosen. But she was a coward. It had nothing to do with the succubus. The succubus was secondary. God worked in mysterious ways – even through a broken coward. She didn't want to touch him, to walk with him through the fire. "Please." Tears stood in her eyes. "You know I'm not lying."
"No dice, Emo-Girl." Dean visibly winced at her voice. God, please. Don't make me help him. But there was no mercy in the curl of his lip. "Prove it."
Dean Winchester was one stubborn son of a bitch. Charlotte stared at him, severe, before turning her eyes away. I don't want to. It was going to hurt him a lot more than it would hurt her. "Just remember that you asked for this." She was going to make certain of that. Dean Winchester was just doing this to hurt her, take something back. "Sam?"
"Yeah?" His voice was soft, and confusion eddied around Sam Winchester. He wanted to believe the girl, but he wanted to believe his older brother.
"Can you untie my feet, or help me stand?" It was the only way. Shock open the memory, feed it back to him – even though she wanted to rip that memory out of her head, never sharing it. The memory, it isn't mine. And I shouldn't have to carry it. She sighed. You're preaching to the choir, River.
"What if you try to hump Dean?" Sam asked. The unspoken part of that sentence was that he had probably spent the entire night trying to keep her from humping Dean when not performing first aid and purification rituals. A part of Sam Winchester trusted her; she wasn't even sure why. "We're out of tranquilizer darts."
Charlotte winced. "I think I can resist your brother's charms for a whole thirty seconds." Except she wanted Dean to throw her against the wall. Hard. Charlotte's breath came out in a hiss. She rolled onto her back, yelping when her back made contact with the mattress. Pain flashed through her, white against her eyes. It helped. Charlotte realized she was staring at the hanging light above her bed. "Ow." Stupid Charlotte. Dean Winchester's breathing sped up, a common reaction to pain. He'd felt it. Bastard!
The pressure against her ankles disappeared, replaced by a tingling sensation. Sam was rubbing her skin where the rope had cut into it. Dean's chest was hot with the infection – the sooner she proved herself to him, the sooner Sam could complete the purification ritual. And that should set everything to rights. Hopefully. The bastard deserved everything he was going to get. She closed her eyes. It would hurt. I'm sorry.
It was easier to be insensitive – to do what needed to be done without worrying how other people feel about it. It was more than a mantra. It was Charlotte's prayer – that she wouldn't feel what she was about to unleash on Dean Winchester.
Sam helped her stand, slowly moving her so that the pressure of her feet on the ground wasn't a shock, and balanced her until she could stand on her own. The numbness was almost unbearable – even Dean's legs were twitching. Charlotte shuffled next to Dean. "Are you ready?" No ceremony or polite dance of manners – just a brusque dare. Maybe he'll back down. Charlotte held her chin up when she looked at him. At least she wasn't wearing the pajamas with the pink flowers on them.
"Hit me with your best shot." Dean returned the challenge in her eyes with one of his own.
Help him.
Sam was watching both of them with a growing sense of unease. He was just like her – someone who planned out every contingency, backed-up and double-checked by hours of careful research. Sam Winchester had a plan – and whatever was playing out in front of him was not a part of it. Charlotte could work with that, too. She turned herself around so that Dean would have the best view.
She took a deep breath. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It was going to hurt Dean Winchester more than her preliminary embarrassment at him realizing what he had almost banged in the back of his crap car. The burning was killing him, hurting her – and was no use to Sam. Especially as he continued to Awaken; he'd need someone to protect him unconditionally, like an older brother who would die for him. And this was the only way to convince Dean to let her help. There was the hope that if she was telling the truth about this, maybe the Winchesters would believe she was telling the truth about everything else. Because they still don't believe in the Nephilim. "Lift my shirt, Sam."
"What?" Sam Winchester had not expected that. "But –"
"It's necessary," Charlotte replied. "Dean will know why." Sam looked away as he lifted the shirt. She heard Dean's sharp intake of breath as he saw them. The scars on her abdomen were the worst ones – criss-crossed and angry, like a crazy woman's quilt. There were others on her left arm and both legs, but Dean was in no position to notice them when he was pulling off her underwear. Her memory flared – how the fire felt like a hot caress against her skin, a demon's kiss.
Charlotte pressed that kiss into Dean Winchester. The tremor jerked open the memory he kept burning inside, beneath the sarcasm and the steady string of women he screwed using someone else's last name. The blood and the fire. The baby in his arms. A mother beloved, and dying in his mind. One long scream, one long pair of eyes between them – watching the fire burn. And the fire that kissed her entire body, blood dripping on to the baby he held in his arms. Dean Winchester had felt his mother die. The mirror collapses, but the image cannot.
And Charlotte fed that night back to him. Scream for scream. Ache for ache. Scar for scar. A thousand permutations of that eternal memory, shattered like a glass ball. Pushed back everything he spilled into her, with his grimace and her tears.
Help him.
Another flicker at the base of her skull. Charlotte inclined her head. One little push from her could end Dean Winchester's misery – she could see it. Her dreams provided proof and her dreams provided instruction. One small push, a simple thing, and his pain could overrun her. Blessed and healing. Taking away a scar with so many of his. Sam Winchester was glowing – blue sigils appearing along his cheek bones – and his smile was the crack before the world ended.
"Armaros," Sam Winchester whispered, in his college boy's voice – earnest and compassionate, but touched by something older than time. Brighter than the stars. "My Armaros." It was simply a matter of falling into his destiny, hand-in-hand with the smile that unleashed Armageddon.
The small piece of herself that was still Charlotte Webb screamed, holding onto the memory of a little boy. And a fire. And the baby in his arms.
Help them, Charlotte. Help them both. Two voices thrumming through her, holding Armaros at bay – and one of them the woman who screamed in a little boy's memory. The other screamed in her own. Both putting too much faith in a scarred little girl whose only goal was to get out alive. In someone who was leaving as soon as she could get to the bus station.
"That's enough." Charlotte pulled back the demon's kiss, pulling herself away from the fires inside of Dean Winchester. The memory wasn't hers, and she shouldn't have to carry it. "Please, God, let that be enough."
Dean nodded, sick and slick with sweat – Charlotte had the accompanying nausea, felt the sheen on her own skin. Was Dean's lower back burning like hers? The tattoo? Sam dropped the pajama top, face completely normal. Composed. One tendril showed he was sincere, with no memory of what the thing inside of him had said. Armaros. That thing had called out to Armaros. Armaros inflamed. She had to get away from the Winchesters. It was dangerous. Right now. Not tomorrow. Who had tied up her hands?
Dean swallowed, and his anger slammed into her, the fury at his core that kept him going, gave him the strength to get up every morning. It was vengeance. "What do you want?" Dean Winchester asked, his voice hoarse.
Charlotte took a breath. Focus. She would leave in the morning – tonight she owed Dean Winchester, owed him for the temptation of pushing and spilling the pain through her. "For Sam to untie my hands. I need to touch you." And she did – God help her, Charlotte wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl in next to him on the bed. Curl up and sleep. Sam was soiled. So was she. But Dean Winchester was untainted. Charlotte swallowed. "For my gift to work."
Dean grinned – a shadow of his face in the bar. "I'm a Winchester, sweetheart." She flushed at that, because his eyes looked the same as she remembered them. Hungry and ravenous.
"I've got two legs," she replied shakily.
"Last time I checked." Dean's voice was light. "A pulse, too."
Sam's eyes flashed. "You two are un-fucking-believable!" He snorted, following the disdain with a gagging sound. "The minute there's humping, I swear to God I'm leaving and not coming back."
His older brother's voice was tired. "Just untie her, Sammy."
Grimacing, Sam complied – gaping at her like she had grown two heads. Charlotte rubbed her own wrists this time; Sam could sense she had shared something with Dean. She was a stranger – nothing more than a girl Dean picked up in a bar. Dean shouldn't be sharing secrets with her. Charlotte blinked, feeling the tears in her eyes suddenly. They all had scars.
It was why she had come up with the plan in the first place.
Because of her incredibly stupid plan, Sam Winchester was still awakening – and his brother was dying; the poison would kill him without sexual energy to feed it. She took a deep breath. I can leave in the morning. The Winchesters had earned this much from her. Hopefully they would consider the debt repaid; Dean's life and the knowledge of Sam's destiny in exchange for her disappearance. Because there was no way in hell Charlotte Webb was sticking around and letting Armaros come out to play with Shemhezai.
Charlotte padded over to the other side of Dean's bed, and hopped up onto it next to him. He looked at her; gave a small smile – nothing like the ones he had given her before. Genuine. Maybe even a little exposed. Charlotte knew he was reliving that night, every detail. Because she had forced it on him. A part of her had enjoyed it, sticking the pin into the butterfly as its wings beat against the glass. Armaros inflamed. She was almost tempted to apologize, but the words would be hollow.
Charlotte braced Dean's neck with her right hand, sliding it between his body and the headboard. She placed her left hand on his chest, underneath the wound where the tip of the succubus claw was lodged. "Calling the mantra with a blade in the skin," she whispered. The recognition on Dean's face when he heard the lyrics surprised her. For the demons within. Her eyes found Sam Winchester's. "Let's do this."
"OK." Sam nodded, picking up the scalpel.
Charlotte braced herself, and bit back the scream of connection as cold metal sliced into Dean. She closed her eyes, falling like a stone inside of him. She shared the pain – the cut of the scalpel was a simple thing for a scarred little girl. But she fell further. Through the lid of a box, locked tight with nails of failure and banded by disappointment. And inside that box, there was a little boy. And a fire. And the baby in his arms.
Help him.
Charlotte was Called and Charlotte was Chosen. Little boys like this were the reason she was made. And though she'd leave him in the morning – leave Dean Winchester to defend his brother, alone but untainted by the demons within – tonight she would repay her debt. A memory for a memory. Pain for pain.
The little boy couldn't cry. But Charlotte could. For him. Just once. Putting her arms around that little boy, bending down to hold him as the fire burned inside, Charlotte cried. So the little boy would know that he wasn't alone in his grief, that the world was the one with demons. But that there was also hope.
In the morning she would leave, but tonight there was something else.
Penance.