A/N: Thanks to all those who reviewed last chapter! Feedback is always greatly appreciated. Happy New Year!
May 17th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 10:15 p.m.
Faith lost track of time as she sat huddled in the corner of Dean Winchester's bedroom, her arms locked about her knees. Leaning her head against the cold wall, she watched the body on the bed. The Slayer was waiting for something. What exactly that something was, she could not say. All that she knew was the waiting.
Roughly half an hour ago, Sam had deposited his brother on the bed and hustled away. For a moment, the ghost had considered following him, but she had no real interest in watching him drown his sorrows in whiskey - if her instincts about where he was heading were accurate. Where the Winchesters were concerned, Faith's instincts tended to be fairly reliable. Instead, she remained huddled between the nightstand and the wall until the bedroom door swung open to reveal an irritatingly familiar face.
She could say something. Whatever the heavyset side-burned man in the doorway was here to do, the Slayer could stop him in an instant by running out to the library and warning Sam. And yet, Faith said nothing. She just sat in the corner and watched the demon stroll into the room.
Ignoring her presence, he addressed the motionless corpse. The demon talked for what felt like forever, prattling on about true natures and moons, and then he bent over and placed the donkey jawbone in the dead man's hand.
For a moment, there was silence. The mattress springs creaked. And then something on the bed took in a deep breath. "Crowley."
"Dean."
Faith rose to her feet at the same time that the dead man did. His eyes were completely black. The new demon stretched, shrugged, and then he smirked, the fingers of his right hand clasped tight around the leather-wrapped handle of the First Blade. With his left, he pulled out his wallet and dropped it on the bed.
Next, he undid the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and pulled out the cross necklace, gripping only the chain and careful not to touch the cross itself. He allowed it to fall from his fingers onto the concrete floor then he kicked it under the bed. Walking over to the dresser, he flattened out a crumpled receipt and grabbed a pen. When he had finished scribbling, the black-eyed demon dropped the receipt on top of the wrinkled bedcovers.
"Come on," he said to Crowley, stepping away from the ghost and the bed and everything that had been Dean Winchester. "Let's go howl at that moon."
He moved out into the hallway, just a few steps behind the King of Hell. But as Dean crossed over the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder, his black eyes staring coldly into Faith's corner as if he knew exactly where she was. His smirk widening, the demon winked once - and then he was gone.
June 13th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas
Gone. It had been almost a month, and still his brother was gone. Dean had disappeared, leaving nothing behind except for a note, his cell phone, and an extremely messy room. Since then, Sam had exhausted every resource that he could think of; his shoulder was dislocated; and Castiel was out for the count thanks to his fading grace. All in all, the hunter had nothing.
He walked back into his brother's bedroom for what was perhaps the hundredth time. The hunter's eyes swept the floor, from the still-rumpled pile of clothes beside the nightstand to the dust that had already begun to collect. Something gleaming just under the bed caught his eye. Careful not to jar his shoulder, Sam slowly lowered himself to the ground and reached underneath the box springs. His outstretched hand closed around a thin chain, and he tugged it out into the electric light.
Rising to his knees, Sam recognized his new find instantly. It was the turquoise cross that Faith had used to wear every now and then, the one that his brother had kept like a touchstone in the Impala for the first few months after the Slayer's death. Sam had wondered what happened to the necklace after Dean had taken it down. Now, he knew.
He gazed down at the piece of jewelry. Its presence was just another example of his older brother's inability to confide in anyone other than himself. For months and months, it had been clear to Sam that Dean was struggling to accept the Slayer's death. If only his brother had talked to him . . . maybe they could have gotten through the last year together instead of being constantly at cross-purposes. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Sam clenched the pendant in his hand.
The room grew colder, the lights flickered overhead, and then someone cleared their throat behind him. "Hey, Sam."
In one move, the hunter leapt to his feet and spun around one hundred and eighty degrees. "Faith?" he gasped in a strangled tone, staring in incomprehension at the pale woman in dark jeans and a darker leather jacket, her face and hair liberally streaked with globs of grayish green goop.
Shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, the woman glanced at her boots and then met his eyes. "Fancy seeing you around here," she tried for a casual air.
Finally recovering from his shock, Sam combined the temperature with the fritzing electricity and now Faith's appearance and arrived at the only logical conclusion. His brother's erratic behavior was at last beginning to make some kind of sense. "How . . . how long have you been a ghost?"
"About a year," she confessed.
"Did Dean know?"
Faith gave him an unamused look. What do you think? her expression asked. Still, the ghost did him the courtesy of an actual answer. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Dean knew."
"Oh." The hunter filed that particular piece of information away. He wished that he could say this was the first or the longest time that his brother had kept an important secret from him. Unfortunately, with his family being what it was, this was just one of many. "Did he – " Sam hesitated, then went on, "did Dean ever mention . . . do you know anything about the Mark of Cain?"
"He said enough." The ghost did not go into detail or mention Crowley.
"I've got to get him back – we've got to get him back," amended Sam as a new idea struck him. Mere moments ago, he had been entirely resourceless. He could not find his brother, not until a new lead showed up. But Faith . . . Faith had always displayed the tenacity of a bloodhound where Dean was concerned.
"Mmm." The outline of the ghost flickered, and she grimaced. "Sorry, Sam. It's taking more and more energy to do this these days. The Veil . . ." her voice trailed away. "I'll see you soon?"
"Sure," he said distractedly. Sam had already thought of three books that he needed to consult as soon as possible. "Faith?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here."
The hunter was too lost in thought to notice the suspicious look that the ghost sent his away.
"Thanks," mumbled Faith dubiously, before disappearing.
June 16th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas
The next time that Faith broke through the apathy of the Veil to manifest, she found herself in the same work room where Dean had threatened her in the past, first with flame and then with the Hell-box. Sam had scrawled runes all across the heavy oaken table, the arcane writing wriggling and writhing its way around a copper bowl filled with smoldering herbs. Even as a ghost, the Slayer caught a snootful of sage and sneezed.
"What are you doing?" she asked warily.
Sam turned on his heel to see her. If he was surprised, he did not show it. "I'm bringing you back," he informed her.
The Slayer threw back her head and laughed, cold and unamused. She vanished and then reappeared on the far side of the table. "I'm dust. Remember, Samwise? Y'all had B toss my ashes off a bridge. I was dust and ashes . . . guess now I'm just some soggy sediment in the belly of a fish. Either way, you ain't bringing me back, honey."
"I know about the ashes," admitted Sam. It was part of why it had taken him seventy-two hours to begin the restoration rituals. He had spent all night and the better part of a day researching non-angelic and non-demonic resurrection and another two days tracking down the more esoteric ingredients. "Which is why this might take a few tries. But I'm not gonna give up. I need you."
Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, the Slayer demanded, "What for?"
"To help me get Dean back."
"Didn't you read the damn note?" Faith scoffed. "He doesn't want to come back. He wants you to leave him alone, Sam, and he's got that Blade that can kill anything. So you know what I'd do? I'd leave him be."
"I need to save him."
In the face of such denial, there was nothing that the ghost could do but throw up her hands in exasperation. "Damn it, Sam! Your brother doesn't want to be saved. Let him go," she urged.
Sam attempted to change the subject. "You've got more energy today."
"Because I'm pissed," answered the Slayer shortly. In a more serious voice, she continued, "Sam, I'm telling you that this is a bad idea. Quit chasing Dean, and leave me alone."
"I'm sorry." He even sounded regretful. "I just can't do that. Dean's never given up on me, and I'm not giving up on him."
"Your funeral," said Faith, lapsing into a resentful sulk.
June 17th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 8:30 a.m.
If Dean had not been a demon, and if he was still checking his email account, and if the ghost had had the fine motor control to send emails, the email that she would have been drafting while watching Sam's multiple attempts to resurrect her would have been a doozy. While he tried and failed ritual after ritual, Faith drafted email after acerbic email in her head.
. . . .
Dear Dean,
Your brother is a jackass with clay instead of ears and jello instead of brains. Was he dropped on his head as a baby? Why the hell can't he listen to a single piece of advice? And why the hell didn't you ditch his ass years ago? Oh, right. The whole 'family comes first' business.
Damn it, Dean. If you'd - if I'd - maybe we could have avoided this whole damn thing.
. . . .
Dear Dean,
I just watched your brother sacrifice a guinea pig and catch the blood with the tray that you used for heating lead to make bullets. On a scale of 'borrowing clothes without asking' to 'joyriding in your car,', where does this fall on the scale of sibling trespasses?
. . . .
Dear Dean,
I hope you're having fun with Crowley. Sam makes for worse company than Buffy immediately post-break up. He won't even let me play music in here. I don't think he's eaten a solid meal since you died. Or slept anywhere near enough. Wonder if he's doing stims?
Hey - you think your brother would ever try meth? What? It was just a question. Jeez, dude.
. . . .
Dear Dean,
Apparently the whole 'black-eyed' thing comes with a drop in IQ. Did you seriously think that a frigging note would be enough to deter your bull-headed brother?
If you were going to leave the damn necklace, you could have at least, I don't know, shoved it into a pair of dirty socks in the laundry basket? Or buried it in the bag of pork rinds that you keep hidden from Sam in your underwear drawer? Or, even melted the damn thing down?
Honestly, I'm starting to feel like you got the better end of this deal. Howling at the moon sounds a hell of a lot better than this.
. . . .
Dean –
You owe me for putting up with this cap. I haven't quite decided what you owe me yet, but don't worry - it'll be expensive and incredibly high proof. Like Everclear but ten thousand times classier.
And if I still can't drink it, you're gonna drink the whole thing and give yourself a fricking crazy hangover. And then I'm going to play that damn chipmunk Christmas song on repeat for at least an hour.
Why? Because. You. Owe. Me.
. . . .
"I told you this was a bad idea," the Slayer observed, crossing her arms over her stomach and frowning at the charred remnants of Sam's latest spell-casting attempt.
The hunter looked up from the empty flask of enchanted blood which he had poured into the copper brazier seconds before everything had gone up in flames. Faith rather suspected that the blood had been Vino de Madre, similar to the stuff that Willow used in her resurrection rituals, but with the substitution of guinea pig for a fawn.
"What is your problem?" snapped Sam, brushing ash and congealed blood away off his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"I told you," Faith repeated for what felt like the millionth time. "I was scattered in tiny pieces over the San Francisco Bay. That ritual – and the four before it – only work if you have the entire body."
"And I told you, I'm not giving up on this."
Quieting the urge to knock him unconscious, the ghost rolled her eyes. "Fine. Just don't blame me the next time things explode and you take all the skin off your face."
"I don't get you." The struggle for composure was obvious in the tense line of the man's jaw. "You've always been . . . I dunno . . . so protective of my brother. And now, when he actually needs you, you don't want anything to do with it. What the hell's that about, Faith?"
"Give me a break," retorted the Slayer. "Dean doesn't need me. Dean doesn't need anything. He's just fine on his own. Only reason I was sticking around here instead of reliving my greatest hits in the Veil was to watch his back. But now he's got the Mark of Cain and the First Blade - dude's indestructible, and he sure as hell doesn't need either one of us chasing after him."
"That's not true," insisted Sam, something akin to doubt growing in his eyes.
Faith huffed angrily. "Just because you don't want to accept it doesn't make it not true, Sammy." She paused, considering her options. They could end all of this once and for all, if she just slipped inside the hunter's body and threw the damn necklace on the fire herself. Or she could knock him unconscious and earn herself a little bit of a reprieve.
In the end, however, the ghost only ran a hand through her goopy hair. Fifteen months in the grave, and somehow the Fyarl mucus never, ever dried. "Do whatever you want, man. Honestly, I just don't care anymore."
Accepting reluctant capitulation as agreement, Sam shoved his hands into two ragged kitchen mitts lying on the table and lifted the still-smoldering brazier. He dumped its smelly contents into the industrial-sized steel sink on the right-hand wall and began to wash the bowl clean. "We'll get him back," he repeated himself. "I promise. Things will get better. You'll see."
The ghost neglected to reply. Having reached her saturation point for the never-ending Winchester Junior shenanigans, she retreated to the relative peace and quiet of the Veil, at this point her only refuge. The Slayer laughed at her own self-pity. If this wasn't pathetic, she didn't know what was.
June 19th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 12:45 p.m.
Time passed, unquantifiable as always inside the Veil, but far too soon for Faith's liking, she felt herself being dragged back out of her numb fog. This passage through the Veil was different from the many that had come before. Instead of pain, she felt uncomfortably stretched in every direction - up, down, left, right, forward, back - until at last her ears popped and she hurtled past the final mists separating her from the Technicolor world of angst that was Winchester Central.
Opening her eyes, the Slayer prepared to toss out a properly biting insult, and then she realized that something . . . something had changed. She could feel the concrete floor, achingly cold, beneath her bare feet. Brown eyes widening in horror, Faith looked down. She wasn't wearing a stitch. Her clothes were gone, and so, too, was the Fyarl snot that had been accessorizing her hair for the last sixteen months.
Across the work room, Sam was kneeling outside a summoning circle outlined in white chalk and a series of occult symbols that Faith did not recognize. Three items had been placed in the center of the circle: a pottery bowl containing darkened earth; a blue and green speckled egg, far too large to be from a chicken, but not quite ostrich-sized, either; and an old photo that had gone ragged around the edges. Just outside the circle was positioned a hairbrush and a shaving razor, both of which Faith vaguely thought might have belonged to Dean. Sam dangled the cross necklace in one hand, his eyes shut tight as he swung the chain in small circles above the brush and the razor.
The woman took a step forward to get a closer look at the picture, silently marveling at the feeling of actual ground under her toes. As she approached, she recognized the photo. It was a copy of the one that Dean had mailed her once for her birthday - the Slayer passed out in an army sleeping bag, her arm wrapped around an also-slumbering beagle. Frowning, the Slayer noticed a new sensation, one previously masked by the weird feelings of being corporeal again. Somewhere behind her sternum, something tightened and tugged her towards the eastern wall of the room.
The hunter continued intoning the words of an incantation, his voice low and monotone. Eyes closed, he had yet to notice the Slayer. "And having fulfilled the quest, having found that which you seek, you will return with - "
That was enough of that. Faith leaned forward and clocked him good on the side of the head. Sam went down like a felled oak, face first into the weird egg. The weight of his head cracked it open with a hiss, and an off-white gluey substance spread across the floor.
"Great." Careful not to get any of the egg's insides on her skin, the woman bent over and ripped the necklace out of his hand. She slipped the chain over her head and then rummaged in the hunter's pockets for his wallet. Faith took out three credit cards and all the remaining cash. "Cheers."
Money in hand, she high-tailed it back down the tiled halls to Dean's room. After shoving the door open, she threw on a pair of sweatpants, drawing the strings at the waist as tight as she could, and wriggled into a black t-shirt. The hunter had one shredded pair of flip-flops, which were at least three sizes too big, but Faith had no other options. She slipped her feet through the straps and held onto the rubber soles with her toes. Then, she ransacked Dean's dresser until she found what she was looking for – one of the fake IDs he had made for her years ago that she had never used.
Finally, Faith gave into the heartburn that was pulling her in an strange direction. She removed the flip-flops and sprinted barefoot through the bunker until she reached the garage. Tossing the shoes across the bench seat of an ancient pickup, the Slayer scrambled up into the cab and took off like a bat out of hell.
The woman drove as fast as she could coax the old engine to go. At the first decent-sized town that she reached, she parked outside a Walmart and spent five hundred dollars on a Slayer's bag full of essentials – clothes, toiletries, alcohol – before changing in the parking lot and quickly hitting up the only two high-end shops in town, where she blew through another two thousand on the credit card to get herself some decent clothes that actually fit.
Her shopping completed, she gave the cards to three teenagers standing outside a local diner and stole a car that somewhere left running at the closest gas station. Faith sped off south and east, following the call of the geas that Sam had placed on her. While she had been replenishing her supplies, the heartburn had migrated up to her skull, and the migraine it caused was almost making her see double. After dry-swallowing three ibuprofen, she grit her teeth and turned the radio up to full blast.
The Slayer glanced into the shotgun seat, where her new duffle was sitting along with her favorites of the new purchases and the last thing she had nicked out of Dean's bedroom: a semi-automatic pistol, a Bowie knife with a wicked sharp edge, and the angel blade that the hunter had kept in his dresser. None of these would do any good against her quarry, all hyped up as he was on Mark of Cain juice, but she'd be able to handle anything else that tried to get in her way.
Faith reached for the bottle of Bourbon in the center console and ripped the cork out with her teeth, before spitting the stopper out the open window and pouring a large shot down her throat. Wiping her mouth on the inside of her wrist, the woman used her new boots to push the accelerator down to the floorboards.
One Winchester handled, one Winchester to go.
June 20th, 2016, Dothan, Alabama, 9:30 p.m.
"Hey, boys."
Dean knew that voice. He swiveled in his chair to meet a pair of blazing brown eyes set over crimson lips. He dragged his gaze along the length of the newcomer's body, taking in the faint scars on the left side of her neck; the silver halter top with an open back that scooped all the way down to the waistband of her red leather pants, which clung to every muscle and curve; and the black leather jacket draped across one arm.
Turning sideways, she slipped between the two demons' chairs and lifted the glass of tequila in front of Dean off the counter. She downed it in one go, then gestured to the bartender. "Shots of whiskey for me and my friends here. And a cheeseburger - with bacon." Faith glanced over one bare shoulder at Crowley. "He's paying." Next, she elbowed the taller demon in the ribs. "Scoot over, lumberjack."
Dean finally unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Wondered if you would show up," he said calmly in a voice filled with even more gravel than usual. The demon slid down from his barstool, directly into the woman's personal space. He towered over her, his knees knocking against her legs, his coal-black eyes burning a hole in her skin. As Dean blinked at her, for a moment his black eyes flickered to green. "You want to take this outside?" His tone was dark with suggestion.
"We could do that," mused Faith. She slid her hand between the folds of her leather jacket and drew it back to reveal fingers wrapped tightly around the silver hilt of an angel blade. "We could go out in some back alley, throw down in the rain. Find out once and for all which one of us's got the bigger stones. Maybe I'd even let you beat me," she ended the last word on a breathy whisper, leaning in until her mouth was inches from his.
Behind her, Crowley cleared his throat to remind them of his presence.
Chuckling dryly, Faith stepped backwards. "But you know what, boys? All I want is my cheeseburger, a six-pack of beer, and to get rid of this damn spell."
The King of Hell perked up at this. "Spell?"
"Yeah." Turning to face the older demon, Faith continued, "You mind if we dispense with all the posturing and dick-measuring? Let's think of this more as a business meeting."
Crowley glanced over the top of her head to Dean, who was looking down at the Slayer with frank amusement, his open hand extended towards her wrist which held the angel blade. Sensing the King of Hell's gaze, the former hunter looked up until he met the other demon's gaze, and he nodded once.
Dean shoved his barstool in the Slayer's direction, then he pulled the empty stool on his other side closer. Unconcerned about being hemmed in by two demons, Faith breezily boosted herself up onto the tall seat.
"So how did Sam do it?" asked the black-eyed demon conversationally, tossing back his shot of whiskey and signaling for another.
"You seem pretty sure that it was him."
"Who else besides my brain-trust brother would think it's a good idea to resurrect a dead Slayer?"
"A question that I've been asking myself constantly." Faith drank her own shot. "I'm fuzzy on the exact details, but there was some kind of demon egg involved. Anyway, one minute I was all loose and floaty in that God-awful Veil reminiscing about Van Halen's greatest hits. Next thing I know, I'm being forced back into this," she gestured to her body, "and your psycho brother's putting a damn geas on me to find you. Think he was gonna compel me to bring you back to him, but I punched his lights out before he could finish. Not a huge fan of compulsions." She grumbled the last sentence under her breath.
"Well, you found me." Dean held his hands up in a 'here I am' gesture. "You here to bring me in, sheriff?" he drawled. "Or now that your heart's all beating again, you looking to call your blonde girlfriend and re-enlist with her Girl Scouts?"
Faith ignored him, keeping her attention focused on Crowley. "I'm not out to ruin any bachelor parties or change anyone's eye color. Just need the geas lifted."
The King of Hell surveyed her over the rim of his shot glass. "You want to make a deal?"
"Not a fan of deals, either." In half an instant, Faith had the angel blade jammed against Crowley's gut and her Bowie knife poised over Dean's groin, both of them hidden below the level of the bar. She lowered her voice to a quiet snarl. "You lift the geas, and I'll leave you alone. Don't lift it, and I'll be your little shadow for the rest of time - living or dead. You think Samantha's annoying? Baby bro's nothing compared to me."
Deliberating over his response, Crowley took a moment to observe the Slayer's stance. She was alert, aware, halfway tensed up, but the amused gleam in her eyes prompted him to speculation. This Slayer could be an interesting Slayer. Those who came back from the dead tended to come back . . . different.
"Well," he said as the bartender set a cheeseburger the size of a dinner plate in front of Faith and she flashed him a smile filled with promises. "I suppose I could be of assistance," purred Crowley smoothly. He watched as Dean's eyes flitted from Faith to the red-headed waitress he had been chatting up earlier and back to Faith again. "Dean?"
The black-eyed demon hesitated, a series of thoughts and images flashing through his head. When the Slayer first stepped into the bar, he had been entirely set on kicking her ass to kingdom come, but now . . . in those pants and that sorry excuse for a shirt, his mind was spinning out down another road entirely.
Much as he had spent the last few weeks forgetting all the ridiculously over-emotional crap that had dominated his life with his brother, much as he resolutely did not give a damn anymore about the woman in front of him – how she had lived or how she had died or how she had spent her afterlife – his body remembered. Remembered lazy days and moonlit nights and the end of the world. Remembered how that body of hers, all encased in leather now, had fit so well and moved so wonderfully against his own.
It was the last thing that Dean wanted. He was finished with everything from his life leading up to the moment that Metatron had ended it. He was howling at the moon now. Howling – and occasionally ending whichever of Abbadon's devotees attempted to make one last show of devotion by attempting to eliminate him.
But the Slayer had always been exceptionally good at howling, his body reminded him unhelpfully, as a few more of Dean's memories trickled through the carefully crafted wall that had been erected to keep them out.
"Why the hell not?" Dean mused, his eyes slowly tracking down the line of the Slayer's spine to where it disappeared beneath the red leather of her trousers.
"Great." Faith lowered her knives and began devouring her cheeseburger with almost indecent eagerness. She demolished it in ten quick bites, then washed the sandwich down with a long swig from the bottle of beer that the grinning bartender pushed across the scuffed wooden counter towards her. "Come on," she said, hopping down from her barstool and sliding her arms into the sleeves of her leather jacket. "We should probably hurry. I've got a feeling your idiot little bro put a tracking spell on me, too."
The demons instantly rose to their feet. Dean grabbed her by the upper arm, his fingers tightening painfully around her bicep.
"You maybe should have led with that," he growled.
Faith shrugged, her smile wide, her eyes cold. "Oops." She glanced back at Crowley. "I assume we're going to need privacy for this?"
"We've got a room upstairs upstairs." Crowley jerked his head towards a dingy stairwell in the far corner of the bar. He was in no real mood to encounter the Moose. Not yet, not when the pieces were all still moving. "We'll start there."
With Faith and Dean following close behind, he led the way across the crowded dance floor. The black-eyed demon kept a tight hold on the Slayer's arm as they ascended the creaky wooden stairs to a narrow hallway with a stained red floor runner that smelled faintly of mildew. Crowley pushed open the third door on the right and entered the grungy motel room.
Faith raised her eyebrows at the sight of the two unmade queen beds and the scattered bits of clothing strewn across the faded shag carpet. "Nice place," she commented sardonically.
"Stuff it, princess," snapped Dean.
"Princess, huh? Your pet names've moved a step up in the world."
"If you two would postpone the bickering . . ."
The Slayer jerked herself free from the demon's hold. "Sure thing, Crowley," she said, suddenly businesslike. "Where do you want to start?"
"Lay down." The King of Hell nodded towards the closest bed.
Faith paused. For the first time, she appeared hesitant. Then, resolving to continue, she flopped onto the bed that Crowley had indicated, folding her arms beneath her head and crossing her boots at the ankles. "Let's do this."
"Fair warning, this will hurt." He set his palm on the Slayer's forehead. Her eyes went blank, and her limbs slackened as she slipped into unconsciousness. Satisfied, Crowley took a step away from the bed and turned to Dean.
The black-eyed demon raised his eyebrows. "What's the hold-up?" he asked. "If she's right and Sam's tracking her, we need to move."
"We?" tested Crowley.
"We," repeated Dean. "You, me, – "
"And the Slayer?" he inquired archly.
"Hardly," Dean scoffed, but it was unconvincing. "She don't work for Sam. But that doesn't mean she works for us."
"I see," murmured the King of Hell, reining in his cynicism. Still, he placed a hand on the center of the Slayer's chest. His irises and sclerae flashed red as he pushed.
Entering the Slayer's mind was almost impossible. He had tried once before, in an attempt to slip inside and possess her, only to be blocked by the magic of a demon race far older than he. Kakistos had chosen his victims with malicious purpose, and even in death the goat-hoofed glutton had left bars of iron that would trap anyone else who tried to claim her. Crowley very much doubted that the Slayer had had any idea of what she was getting herself into when she acquired that barbed wire tattoo of hers.
For a long moment, he did not attempt to slip past the bars. He merely looked. There, deep inside the heart of her, Crowley could see that the soul was tethered loosely to the body. The body itself seemed to be barely held together by strings of silver-colored light that wrapped around the woman from the top of her skull to her heels, spiraling in bands of silver fire that criss-crossed their way across her skin. One strand extended from her head to her heart and then sprang outwards in the direction of Dean. Another stretched from her head out into the air around them.
So. He had the geas and he had the tracking spell. Crowley's red eyes narrowed. He took a closer look and then pulled back. "It could be dangerous," he said, purposefully vague. "To clear out whatever your moose of a brother did."
Dean huffed in irritation. "Quit stalling. Let's get this over with."
Crowley smiled. He glanced down at the Slayer one last time and then shoved. Red fire streamed from his hand into the Slayer's chest, arcing across her skin in little bursts of lightning. As he worked, the Slayer's body leapt off the bed. Her head snapped backwards and her mouth opened to scream, but her eyes remained blank and unfocused. Dean's heavy palm clamped down before the woman could do more than inhale.
One by one, the red eradicated the silver, until nothing was left. Nothing but a shell, the vestiges of Kakistos' claim, and the fluttering soul. Crowley pressed his hand harder down against the Slayer's sternum, and ribbons of crimson encircled her, keeping the soul tied down and the body from falling apart.
Sampson had done a rather halfway job. Sooner or later, all dust returned to dust. In this case, it would be a little sooner than expected. Even with Crowley's work. The King of Hell said nothing of this, merely lifted his hand. The Slayer collapsed, limp, on the flowered hospital comforter.
After a while, her eyes opened, and she rolled onto her side, curling into a ball. Groaning, she raised a hand to her forehead to block out the light.
"There," said Crowley. He figured the bonds would hold together for less than three weeks. "All better."
Squinting against the brightness overhead, Faith lowered her hand. She pushed herself off from the bed and staggered slightly, colliding with first Dean and then Crowley before she regained her balance. "Thanks," she said faintly, and she wobbled towards the motel room door. As she pushed the door open, she gave the demons two one-fingered salutes. "Be seeing you, gentlemen."
The Slayer kept up her pretense of weakness until she rounded the final curve of the creaking staircase back down to the main floor of the bar. Faith darted through the crowds of dancing people, unfolding her clenched right fist to reveal the steel car keys that she had swiped off of the black-eyed demon when she bumped into him. The Impala was a far better ride than the old Acura she had picked up outside of Biloxi.
Out in the darkened parking lot, Faith transferred her new navy duffel from the beat-up Acura to the backseat of the Chevy. The car was barely cleaner than the Honda - the floorboards and seats were littered with fast food wrappers, empty beer bottles, and unwashed clothing. But it would be all right.
She shifted the Impala into reverse and backed out of the parking lot. The way she figured it, she had maybe fifteen minutes tops before Dean realized that she had filched his keys. As she sped off towards the entrance ramp for the Interstate, Faith grinned. She could get awfully far away in fifteen minutes.
For half an instant, when she woke up hog-tied in the hot, dark compressed space with the roaring of an engine all round her, Faith considered panicking. But then she remembered red eyes appearing in her rearview mirror and smarmy British voice snarking in her ear, and she recognized the familiar rumble of the Chevy. Fan-damn-tastic. She was in the trunk.
Someone had stretched her legs out as much as possible in the cramped space and braced her back with what felt like a couple of duffel bags to keep her from rolling. The zip ties around her wrists and ankles were securely tight, not cruelly so. If Dean and Crowley were bothering this much about things, they weren't going to kill her without some kind of build-up.
Not that Faith would have minded too much if they did. She wasn't opposed to death, not if death meant the end. Or if she could go to the same kind of heaven that Buffy went to. Although she didn't fancy being a ghost again, she still wasn't sure how much she fancied being alive.
In the stifling airlessness of the trunk, she nestled her back closer against the duffel bags until she had worked her shoulders and neck into a more comfortable angle. Sure, if she felt like taking half the skin off her wrists, she could probably bust loose from the zip ties, kick out the tail lights, slam her heels into the trunk lid, and do a barrel roll across the asphalt. If there wasn't a car tailing the Impala too closely, she might even survive.
Instead, the Slayer twitched her nose and ran her tongue around the edges of her teeth. If Crowley and company wanted to kill her, it would be a lot less tedious than road rash and playing a speed bump. Probably faster, too. Faith relaxed, her eyelids fluttering closed. In moments, she was asleep.
June 21st, 2016, Naples, Florida, 8:30 a.m.
The trunk creaked open, and a blast of overheated sunlight struck Faith in the face. Wincing, she opened her eyes to a tall shadow backlit by the sun.
"Up," said the shadow gruffly. He leaned in, grabbed her under the armpits, and dragged the Slayer out of the trunk. She stayed still in his grasp without protesting, her brown eyes fixed steadily on the expressionless face staring back at her.
The demon tugged until her legs slid over the steel lip of the trunk, and then he leaned her up against the back bumper. Faith grimaced as her leather trousers came into contact with the steaming metal. She glanced around them. He had pulled the car off along some access road, surrounded by groves and groves of trees. Somewhere beyond the woods, she could hear the faint roar of the highway.
After setting her down, Dean took a half-step back and folded his arms across his stomach. "You got my attention."
"Wasn't looking for your attention." The words scratched against the dryness of her throat. "Where are we?"
"Naples, Florida. Give or take a few miles," he shrugged.
"Where's Crowley?"
"He had a few last-minute things to wrap up back in Dothan. He'll be around later. 'Sides, seems like you and I're well overdue for a little talk."
"Didn't think you'd still be into all that armchair psychology business."
"I'm not," said Dean, frowning. "I'm done with all of it – the guilt, the sorrow, all that weight of the world crap. I'm done being responsible for everyone else's shitty decisions. What happened to you? Yeah, sure, dying sucks, but that wasn't my fault. So living or dead, you'd better get the hell over it and quit bothering me. Get outta here while you can," he warned her.
The ghost snorted. "One, I can't go anywhere until you cut the damn plastic." She shoved her zip-tied fists out in his direction. "Two, of course the Fyarl demon wasn't your fault. Just a combo of bad timing and even worse luck."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "So then why'd you steal my car?"
"Why'd you track me down?" Faith countered. "You've been trashing the Impala. You can't pull all that 'it's my baby, so I had to come rescue her' crap and expect me to believe it."
Not bothering to answer, Dean withdrew a switchblade from the pocket of his worn jeans and flicked it open. Faith watched the four-inch blade out of the corner of her eyes as the demon moved back into her personal space.
"Hold still," he warned unnecessarily, dropping to one knee in front of her.
Faith did not move an inch as the demon slipped the blade of the knife between her ankles and the tough white plastic of the zip tie and jerked upwards. Then he rose to his feet and did the same to the tie around her wrists.
The Slayer rubbed at the skin where the zip ties had been – more out of habit than anything else. They hadn't bound her tightly enough to hurt. She looked up from her hands to the demon's dark t-shirt and finally up into his stubbled face and the harsh glare of sunlight.
"I really was just after the car," she said quietly. "Look, Dean, you're done with the white hat hunting stuff. So'm I. I'm not headed for Sam or for Buffy or for any of that. I just wanted to see the country – never got around to it last time I was alive."
She exhaled. "Was headed for the world's largest rubber band ball out in Lauderhill before y'all caught up with me. It's like seven feet tall, four and a half tons . . ."
The demon rocked back onto his heels. "You really aren't afraid of me," he observed aloud.
"No," Faith replied flatly, finger-combing her hair back into a ponytail.
"I might still kill you."
"Yep." The Slayer pulled the black hair elastic off of her left wrist.
"You don't really care."
She shook her head. "Nope."
Dean sucked his teeth, then said, "Saw a sign for a diner not too far from here. You hungry?"
The dead woman secured her ponytail and gave her hair an experimental toss. "Sure," she said with the ghost of a smile. "I could eat."