Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.
Author's Note: This one's a tad bit violent: be warned!
It had to happen on the freeway. Couldn't have hit him just a little bit sooner, when he was still on some side road or pulling up to an intersection. No, it had to be once he jumped on the freaking, packed, totally impossible to turn around or even get off in a timely fashion, freeway.
And she wasn't answering her phone. Home or cell. Which, truthfully wasn't exactly out of the ordinary, but come on! Pick up!
It takes him almost forty-five minutes to get there. Forty-five minutes of cutting people off, speeding and weaving and trying not to crush the phone into a million tiny shards after each passing ring.
And when he pulls up in front of her ramshackle little house, bolting from the car and moving swiftly, silently up the walkway, he can't help but be relieved at how quiet and peaceful it seems. Maybe he made it in time after all. With time to spare even.
The light's on in the main room, the one that acts as the living/family/dining/guest room, so he figures she hasn't gone to bed, is probably still up reading and drinking, favorite pass time of twenty-something bookworms. And sure enough, peering in he sees her outline through the nearly sheer curtains, sitting on the couch.
Sitting staunchly tall and tense, on the couch. On edge.
It only takes a moment, even before registering the soft murmur of voices, for him to realize that someone is there with her.
He moves closer to the window near the door, presses his ear up to it even, but can't make out anything discernable. Cheap house though it may be, she knows enough to have it outfitted with things like industrial locks and multi-paned glass. In their family, safety is always priority number one.
He knows he could be overreacting. There's no yelling, just soft and subtle murmurs, a private conversation. But her posture shows something different. And more than that, he feels something different. Not just because of the recent vision, but because he knows his sister, senses her even.
So he picks the lock, not even bothering to be quiet about it, and hurls himself though the door.
"Sam?" she says in a questioning tone, posture still stiff, eyes still trained, mostly, on the other man in the room. Ben.
"Nice to see you," he says with a bit too much cheer as he advances on Sam, hand extended for a shake, a thing Ben's never done before. "Took you long enough."
Before Sam can even comprehend well enough to form a response – because, what the hell is he talking about? – Tessa jumps up, fire in her eyes, and grabs Ben by the arm, flings him around to face her. "What is your damage?" she spits angrily, equal parts pissed and perplexed. "If you're possessed or something would you just tell me so I can get the exorcism out of the way?"
"Not that simple," he responds, calm and cool, and not at all the Ben she knows.
"What are you?" Sam ekes out, hoping for…something. Something other than what he's been thinking since entering the house.
"You'll find out. When it's your time."
"What is – " he starts, but is quickly interrupted by his sister.
"The cloak and dagger, sinister slow talk might work on other people, Ben."
"If that is in fact my real name," he laughs.
Unfazed, she goes on, "But it doesn't work on us, so why don't you just quit the riddles and – "
"Shhh," he hisses, suddenly in her face with his finger to her lips. Then, a soft, menacing whisper in her ear, "I know something you don't know."
"Hey," Sam barks, grabbing Ben's arm and pulling him back, away from Tessa. Trying to pull him back, away from Tessa. But he bucks wildly, flails out of his grip, sending his elbow back swift and hard, right into Sam's face.
And he can't help it, because it's just what happens when your nose is sent collapsing into the rest of you. He falters back, tears up. And by the time he's able to see, even just a little, through the intense blur, Ben's already got the knife once though his sister's back.
Winchesters are no strangers to pain. It happens. It happens even more for them. To them. And they've always been taught to just work though it, push it aside and move on, do what needs to be done. So it's no surprise, not even to Ben, when Tessa forgoes the typical response to being stabbed – falling and screaming, say – and instead twists frantically around, elbowing him in the ribs.
He almost laughs, because he's still got a hold of her hair with one hand, and can feel her blood ooze out over his other. But when she jerks back for a head butt, newly short locks easily slipping from his grip, while also looping her foot back around his ankle, sweeping his leg out from under him, he loses his sense of humor.
When he goes down, the knife comes with him, slipping from her ribcage with a sickening suck and grind. And just like that she can't breathe, collapses to the floor on hands and knees gasping for air.
Sam tries, he does. Lunges at the man who only weeks ago was such a good friend. But he's still virtually blind, so he doesn't even see the kick coming, only feels his knee hyperextend and crack before he falls to the floor.
Ben pulls himself up into a sitting position and reaches out once more for a handful of Tessa's hair. He raises the knife, barrels it down towards her, and is actually stunned, shocked, when she slips his grip and rolls away. Because the girl can't even breathe, he's sure he got her lung.
But Winchesters never stop moving.
Her foot connects with his sternum, and hell, even she's surprised she had the wind to do that, but thank God it takes him down. Just not for long. Certainly not long enough for her to get her breath back. Not even long enough for Sam to drag himself over.
She's on her back now, staring up at him as he holds her wracked body down – just like he pictured it. Blood so sweet pooling along the hardwood, spilling over her lips with every ragged breath. He leans in and kisses her, hard, nothing like he'd ever done in the past. And when he pulls back, he licks her blood from his lips, tastes the salty zest of victory.
Of a job well done.
But he's quickly pulled back, upright, by the neck, knife still hanging from his fingertips. Sam's grip is strong as he pulls the phone cord taught around Ben's throat, struggles with the need to choke him until he's unconscious versus the desire to strangle him until he's dead.
She can't breathe, still. And she doesn't think she can move, not even sure she can really still see. But it looks as though Ben has gotten his grip back on the blade, turned it around in his hand, pointed towards his body. Pointed towards her brother's gut. And Sam doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in bringing the guy down.
It's happened before, too many times to count, to all the Winchesters. That quick, intense burst of adrenaline that no one sees coming, not even the person it possesses. There's no trying involved. It just happens. There's no thinking, only doing.
She shifts under the Ben, who can't really see her, vessels now popping in his eyes, still with his head thrown back into Sam. And she twists the knife from his grip, just as his hand begins its arc up to the intended target. It virtually slides right out, his fingers too weak to hold tight.
She knows he's close to unconsciousness, right there really. His eyelids are probably fluttering shut, brain temporarily shutting down. And without the knife, and still being in this state, he's really no threat at all.
But her entire body screams in a pain she's never come close to feeling before. And he did that. And Sam's face is painted with a crazy sort of rage she's never seen, not even on their father. And he did that too.
So she follows through on the adrenaline rush, gives in to what her body wants to do, no matter what her heart says. And she shoves the blade into his chest, pushing with every ounce of strength she doesn't really have. Scraping along the ribcage. On through his heart.
And she twists the knife.
000000000000000000000000000000
It could have been while he was in the shower. Or out at the bar, struggling to hear the cute blond next to him over the heady din of music and drunks. Or it could have been while he was zoning out in the car on the way back to her place, her voice droning on in his ear about – good Lord, was it her cat? Or maybe it was while he was…otherwise preoccupied.
Either way, he didn't hear the phone ring, not once.
So it wasn't until late the next morning, after getting back to his motel and showering up, that he got the message. Sam's voice, terse and tense, uttering five simple, terrifying words. Dean, something happened. Hurry, man.
And he hightailed it out the door, aiming wildly for California.