A/N: Sorry kids! I was running an hour late today, but better late than never, right?
Thank you to skzb, Catsluver, and Cartersdaughter. I will never be able to thank you enough.
Chapter 33
Dean was stunned for a second, doubled over and trying to catch his breath, but it was futile. First, whatever creature was attacking him had rammed into his gut, pushing all the air from his lungs, and now the creature had a viselike choke hold on him from behind. The thing was everywhere all at once, and Dean couldn't stay upright. He fell to the floor, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder before coming to rest on his back.
His attacker was now pinned under him, one of its many arms trapped beneath his side. He tried to roll onto his stomach so he could lever himself up, but before he could, something sat on his ribs. In the dim light of the storeroom, he could see a figure on top of him. A knife blade glinted in a sliver of light, and very humanlike arms were raised high, as if ready to plunge the blade through his heart.
"Wait! It's not it!" yelled the thing underneath him. He realized in that moment that (A) the thing sounded like a human girl, and (B) there were actually two girls, if the wild tangle of shadowy, long hair belonging to the assailant on top of him was any indication. They could still be djinn that had shapeshifted into human female forms, but why would the one under him tell the other one to hold off on killing him? Unless they wanted his blood warm and flowing for an afternoon cocktail.
The shadowy figure on top of Dean swooped her blade down in an agile move, and the sharp edge of the blade suddenly felt cold and deadly against his throat. "This is a silver knife dipped in lamb's blood," said a hard-edged, slightly breathless woman's voice.
While Dean had never heard her use that lethal tone before, he'd know that voice anywhere. Heather. He closed his eyes, relief and love flooding through him. She certainly didn't seem any worse for wear, since she was a hairsbreadth away from slitting his throat.
"Human or djinn—either way—you move, and you're dead," she warned harshly.
"I know I screwed up, baby, but can't we at least talk about it?" Dean quipped, as if they were having a simple lovers' spat.
There was a beat of silence and then an incredulous, "Dean?"
"Hi," he said in his best sexy-porn-star voice.
"Oh, my God. I mean, thank God. I mean, holy cow!" Her words came out in a rush, but then a note of doubt took over. "But what if it's not really you? I mean, what if the djinn got to you and you're it?"
"Cut me," Dean instructed in a matter-of-fact tone.
"What?"
He held up his arm that was now free. "Cut my arm."
She stared at it warily, not moving.
"Oh, please!" groaned the girl beneath him, sounding annoyed. "Give it to me, then."
Dean knew now the disgruntled voice belonged to Jo. "Hey, Jo," said Dean. "It's good to sort of see you again."
She snorted and tried to wiggle under him. "You've put on weight. You're about to collapse my lung. Let him up before he suffocates me," she complained to Heather.
Heather hoisted her leg off Dean and sat next to his side, knife still at the ready should he try anything. She hadn't let her guard down, and Dean was impressed. Apparently, Jo and Ellen had trained her well.
Dean rolled off of Jo, sat up, and rubbed his shoulder. It would be bruised, but it wasn't dislocated. Jo sat up and dug out a knife similar to Heather's from the inside of her jacket. "Heather's a natural with knives," Jo explained. "We decided I would do whatever it took to distract the djinn while she sank the knife in its gut."
Dean shot a surprised look at Heather. A hidden talent for knives? Just when you think you know someone...
Jo grabbed Dean's wrist and held up her knife. "Sorry," she said, even as she was already slicing into his skin.
He hissed a breath through his teeth. "Little deep, Jo," he groused pointedly.
"Don't be a baby." She pressed his shirttail to the now-bleeding wound and looked at Heather. "He's Dean. You can kiss him without getting cooties. Well," she corrected, "at least djinn cooties."
Dean gave her a saccharine smile. "Ah, Jo, always a pleasure."
Jo snickered and got up to flip a switch on the wall, illuminating everyone with bright, fluorescent yellow light. Heather and Jo both looked disheveled and dirty, but Dean couldn't see anything seriously wrong with them. Jo hadn't changed much in the last four years, except she looked a bit more mature. The features of her face were a little more defined, less adolescent. She was a pretty, spunky blond, but Dean's heart flipped when he got a good look at Heather.
She looked hot, even with her coppery hair sticking up in every direction and a big smudge of what he hoped was dirt next to her eye. The way she'd expertly handled the knife and almost killed him when she thought he was the djinn was a major turn-on, and her sky-blue eyes made him get that emo feeling he would never admit to, not even under the worst torture possible.
She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. It jarred his sore shoulder, but it was a small price to pay for having her in his arms. It sure as hell beat finding her hanging from the ceiling drained of blood.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she said into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder.
"You're glad I'm okay?" he questioned incredulously. "You're the one that's been missing for two days."
She drew back and gazed at him, giving him the crooked, enigmatic smile he loved. "We would have gotten away sooner," she explained, "but that dirtbag djinn can really tie a knot."
"Dirtbag?" Dean echoed, amused. Heather never swore unless she was extremely pissed off. Apparently, being kidnapped by a monster didn't warrant bad language.
"How about 'scary, nasty-assed motherfucker'?" Jo supplied.
"Has a nice ring to it," said Dean.
Heather smiled, but then her expression morphed into a frown. "Dean, did you come alone?"
Every muscle in Dean's body immediately tensed. "Son of a bitch. Sam!"
XXXXXXXX
Sam pretended to be indecisive as he perused the contents of the pastry counter where the cash register was. "How's the baklava?" he asked, watching for any weird reaction from the dark, burly, cue-ball-headed owner of the store.
"Good," Cue Ball answered tersely. He was clearly annoyed at Sam's disruption of his quiet afternoon and Sam's waffling, and he kept checking his watch.
Sam was convinced there was something weird about the man, although Cue Ball had done nothing out of the ordinary except be rude. Sam's hunting instincts were on red alert, and he wondered if Dean had found anything in the back of the place because he was running out of ways to keep the man behind the counter distracted.
"Sir, could you please make your selection?" Cue Ball prodded in his faint accent. "It's closing time, and I have somewhere I need to be."
Sam frowned. "Your sign says you don't close until nine in the evening."
The man looked back at Sam with dark, dead eyes. "I close early today."
"Oh. Uh, sorry. The baklava is for my wife," Sam explained. "She's kind of picky."
The man rolled his eyes. "You could always come back tomorrow."
Sam nodded, surreptitiously scanning the area behind the counter, hoping to see some sign of Dean. "Right." He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, feeling for the silver knife dipped in lamb's blood he'd hidden and wanting to reassure himself that the knife was still there. He and Dean had both made sure they were armed with the proper djinn-killing weapons before entering the restaurant.
The knife wasn't there. Sam's heart sank to his gut, and a cold fear wove through his body.
Cue Ball's eyes suddenly flared and changed to a weird, glowing, electric blue—a telltale sign he was a djinn. "Looking for this?" the creature asked with a leer, holding Sam's knife up for him to see.
Huh. Apparently, not only did djinn have superhuman strength and speed, but they were also awesome pickpockets. The djinn must have snaked the knife when it had gotten close to Sam to help him in the door. The bastard had known Sam was a hunter all along.
Before Sam could react, the djinn grabbed him by the throat with one hand and easily lifted Sam's six-four body up out of his chair, holding him over the counter like a rag doll.
Sam tried to pry the djinn's strangling grip from his neck with both hands, but his effort was futile. No air could get past Sam's throat, and he was beginning to see dark spots before his eyes.
"I have to say," the djinn said conversationally, "you're the first gimp that's ever come after me."
Sam would have said "Fuck you" if his vocal cords weren't currently being crushed.
The djinn's mocking chuckle was interrupted by a tap on its shoulder, and it turned to see what was behind it.
"No one calls my brother a gimp except me," barked Dean, his brows winged with fury.
The djinn unceremoniously dropped Sam, as if Sam were no threat whatsoever, and focused its attention on Dean.
Sam heaved in the gulps of air his body had been desperate for and coughed, even as he crashed down onto the glass counter, his hip and side taking the brunt of the impact. He could hear the thick glass of the counter cracking like ice on a frozen pond and felt a pain in his upper ribs that throbbed in time with his hammering heart.
The djinn held up the knife it'd stolen from Sam and made a swipe at Dean. Dean made an impressive, lighting-quick move to evade the deadly jab and threw a couple of punches at the djinn, which hardly affected it but made Dean grunt with pain on each impact of his fist to the djinn's jaw. As if Dean were just an annoying little gnat, the djinn suddenly grabbed the front of Dean's jacket and flung him bodily across the room, causing him to fly through a plate glass window advertising the best shawarma in town. Probably true, since it was also the only shawarma in town.
Sam winced in sympathy as his brother landed, stunned, on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, along with a shower of glass. When Sam turned back to the djinn, he was surprised to see Heather and Jo both holding knives at the ready and closing in on the monster. The girls seemed to have come out of nowhere.
The creature gave them the same evil leer it'd given Sam, and Sam realized the djinn was toying with them all. With the djinn's supernatural speed and strength, the bastard could neutralize each one of them in a matter of seconds. All it would have to do was zap them with its poison, and they'd all live happily ever after, their every wish fulfilled in dreamland until the monster sucked them dry of blood.
Jo and Heather took a step closer to the djinn, who now had its back to Sam. "Ladies," it taunted, "you know you are no match for me. We've been through this. You're like pathetic little butterflies."
Heather suddenly landed a roundhouse kick worthy of Jackie Chan against the djinn's chest. Unfortunately, in a move so fast Sam didn't even see its hands move, the djinn grabbed Heather by her leg and threw her into some shelves, causing an artful arrangement of colorful ceramic tea cups to clatter to the floor, along with a dazed Heather.
The djinn grabbed Jo next, squeezing her neck with one hand and strangling her the same way it had done to Sam. Dean, who'd managed to get upright again, threw his knife through the opening in the broken window in a maneuver worthy of a knife-thrower in a carnival. It would have been a perfect strike to the djinn's neck, but the djinn turned at the last second to face Dean, still holding Jo by the throat in one hand and Sam's knife in its other.
Dean's knife hit the djinn's beefy shoulder and bounced off, falling to the counter where Sam lay. Sam didn't hesitate. He grabbed the knife in one hand, held onto the edge of the counter for leverage with his other, and plunged the knife into the djinn's stomach—glad that he had long arms and a long reach. The knife sank into the vulnerable belly of the djinn, and Sam pushed the knife downward, ripping the djinn's gut open like he was filleting a fish.
The djinn looked down at the bloody entrails escaping its body and then at Sam, its features frozen in stunned disbelief. It had made the deadly mistake of letting its guard down where Sam was concerned and was now paying a high price for that mistake. The creature dropped Jo. She landed on the floor in a heap, rubbing her throat and coughing in gulps of air. Electric blue light that matched the djinn's eyes flashed out of every orifice in its body as it made its last death throes.
Almost as surprised as the djinn, it took Sam a second to comprehend what he'd done. He was starting to feel kind of badass until the djinn suddenly dropped to the floor with a huge thud. Sam's hand still held the hilt of the knife that was buried in the djinn. He let go when the djinn started to fall, but it was too late. Sam lost his balance and flipped off the counter in a very un-badass way, landing on his back on top of the djinn and feeling the disgusting squish of steamy djinn intestines mingling with his hair.
He lay there a second, despite the stench and heat from the djinn entrails, and tried to catch his breath, ignoring the ache in his ribs. He could hear Dean talking to Heather, checking her out and asking her questions. She was answering him, which was a good sign.
Suddenly, Jo's face was looming over Sam. "Hey there."
"Hi, Jo."
"You killed the fucker. Nice reach."
"Thanks."
"Would you like a hand?" she asked with a smirk. "Or is djinn smegma some kind of new shampoo for that girlie long hair of yours that I haven't heard about?" Sam's hair had been shorter the last time she'd seen him.
He grimaced with disgust. "A hand would be good."
She pressed her lips together, her eyes twinkling, and held out her hand. He grabbed it and let her pull him into a sitting position. She glanced furtively at his loose jeans and thin legs and then quickly back to his face, obviously trying to hide her curiosity.
"Thanks," he said.
"Sure." She was staring at him intently.
"So, you and Heather seem in pretty good shape," Sam remarked, "considering you've had djinn poison running through your veins for two days."
Jo shook her head. "Didn't work on us. Heather read in the lore somewhere that a Tawiz pouch would make us immune to the poison." Jo pulled out a small black pouch hanging on a thin black cord around her neck. It had been hidden under her shirt. "The pouch has small papers with Islamic protection prayers written on them. Mom and I were skeptical, but it turns out Heather was right." Jo gave a who-knew? shrug and said seriously, "Praise Allah."
"So what happened?" Sam prompted.
"The Tawiz protected us from going to la-la land, but it did nothing to help us fight the djinn's strength or speed. The fucker snatched us from the warehouse quicker than we knew what was happening and tied us up just like it did the owner of the restaurant, then took on his form." She rolled her neck on her shoulders and winced. "My arms and shoulders are killing me. The djinn hooked up an IV port in our necks, too. We pretended to be in a coma when it was in the room, and when it wasn't, we worked to try to get ourselves untied."
She showed Sam her wrists, and he winced. Her skin was bruised, rope-burned, and bloody in some places.
Jo's jaw hardened with hatred. "The djinn took a few sips of our blood—and it was pretty damn hard to fake being comatose during that—but the thing was more interested in draining poor Omar first. It finished the poor dude off this morning, and I'm sure either Heather or I would have been the djinn's main course tonight.
"Anyway, it had a fetish for falafel—go figure—and the restaurant was the perfect cover for it. It's not the usual lair for a djinn, but it knew hunters would look for us in abandoned buildings." She tilted her head. "How did you two find us?"
"Like you said, djinn have a thing for falafel. I read it in the lore. This is the only place in town that sells it."
Jo's eyes widened and she smirked. "How many abandoned buildings did you search first?"
"Every one in the city. We were running out of places to look."
"So, this was grasping at straws?" she queried with an arched brow.
"Pretty much," he answered.
She let out a little breath and shook her head slightly. "Well, I'm really damn glad you thought of it."
"Me, too," Sam said with a smile. "We should call Bobby and Ellen and let them know we found you."
Jo nodded. "I'll call my mom in a sec." She paused, looking him in the eye. "It's good to see you, Sam."
"It's good to see you, too, Jo."
"You know, it hurt when you shut us out," she said bluntly. "We would have been there for you. You know my mom kind of thinks of you and Dean as sons."
"I know," Sam said quietly. Ghost pangs of the anger and fear of that first year after his injury made his chest tighten. "It wasn't you. I was in a bad place in many ways, and I didn't want to see anybody, not even Bobby. I didn't want anyone's pity."
She nodded solemnly with understanding and then, after a beat, smiled, reminding him of the saucy, cocky girl she'd been the first time he and Dean met her four years ago. "I heard you've been busy," she said. "Wife, college, and twins, huh?"
"Yeah. And a few other catastrophes in between."
She laughed softly. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a Winchester," she teased. Looking pointedly at the dead djinn, she said, "Just so you know, I don't pity you. That was a pretty impressive kill. We would have all been toast. No wonder those fuckers live so long. They're really friggin' hard to get rid of."
"Yeah," Sam agreed. They were silent for another moment, taking each other in. Finally, Sam said, "Would you, uh, grab my chair for me?"
Her eyes scanned the area around them. "Sure. Where is it?"
"On the other side of the counter."
Jo unfolded herself off the floor and was back with Sam's chair in two seconds. She watched as he gripped hold of the frame of it with one hand and pressed a fist into the smooth, tiled floor of the restaurant with his other, then dipped his head and lifted his butt in the air, swinging it over to the seat. He was back in his chair in the blink of an eye. Okay. Maybe a little longer than that, but not much. He lifted his legs with his hands at the knees to position his feet on the footplate. His ribs ached from all the movement of getting into his chair, and he tried not to wince under Jo's scrutiny. After all, he had an image as a badass to uphold.
"Wow," she said, clearly impressed. She bent down suddenly and hugged him, startling him a bit. He raised his arms, hugging her back. It made his ribs hurt again, but he didn't think they were cracked, just bruised. He'd have to remember to check out his hip later when he had a chance to inspect the damage to it.
Still hugging him, Jo warned in his ear, "If you blow us off for another four years, we'll hunt you down."
"Right."
Sam felt a sense of satisfaction and closure. He'd gotten through the awkward reunion with both Jo and Ellen, something he'd dreaded and put off ever since his injury. He hadn't wanted to see pity in their eyes, but his paralysis turned out to be no big deal to either of them. Not only that, but he'd actually been a help instead of a hindrance on the hunt. He'd proven something, not only to Dean and everyone else, but to himself, too.
Now, he was ready to get the hell out of Dodge. He had a family to get home to.
XXXXXXXX
"Here," said Heather, shoving a bottle of 190-proof Everclear at Dean. Her long coppery hair was mussed and dirty, but she was still beautiful.
They were alone in the girls' motel room. Sam was showering in his and Dean's room, and Bobby, Ellen, and Jo were having a celebratory drink in Bobby's.
"Jesus Christ, Heather," said Dean, arching a brow at the potent bottle of alcohol. "You tryin' to blind me?"
She shrugged. "It dulls the pain quickly, it's cheap, and it also makes a great antiseptic."
Dean snorted. "Yeah. It's also illegal in at least thirteen states."
Her light-blue eyes filled with sympathy. "These stitches are really going to hurt, Dean."
"It's nothing I haven't felt before."
She let out a sigh, the look on her face saying she thought he was stubborn but knew it was futile to argue. "Suit yourself," was all she said before grabbing the Everclear from him and dousing the cut on the back of his bare shoulder with liquid fire.
He couldn't help the grunt of pain that escaped him. "Fuck!" His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe through the torment.
"You good?"
"Peachy," he said through clenched teeth.
"I'm starting the sutures now," she warned.
"Do it."
"Sure you don't want some hunter's helper?"
Dean eyed dubiously the Everclear bottle she'd set down on the small table in the motel room. "That's not hunter's helper. That's turpentine."
With another sigh, she stuck the suturing needle into his skin for the first stitch. Sharp pain shot through his shoulder and made him feel shaky and queasy. This wound was deeper than the other cuts he'd gotten, which were mostly superficial—all nice souvenirs from being thrown through a plate glass window—along with the slice on his arm from where Jo had tested to make sure he wasn't a djinn.
"At least ten more stitches to go," Heather informed him, a sure-you-don't-want-to-drink-the-lighter-fluid question in her voice.
Dean took in a deep breath, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes, telling himself to suck it up. He could feel Heather patting the cut with gauze, trying to staunch seeping blood. "Whatever happened to good old Jack and Jim?" he asked. The reply he got was her mouth on his, kissing him chastely, and he opened his eyes.
She was behind him, leaning over him, and it gave the illusion that she was upside down. She pulled away enough to look at him and gifted him with her crooked smile. "Jack and Jim are for babies. Big girls drink Everclear."
Dean shook his head like she was nuts but grabbed the rotgut off the table and took a drink, coughing as the grain alcohol seared his throat. "Damn," he growled, still coughing.
"Ready for me to finish?" Heather asked softy.
He took another swig, coughed, and gave a quick nod, letting her know he was ready to be tortured again. And she'd been right. The Everclear worked quickly. He was already starting to feel a buzz.
Her paramedic skills were evident—or else the Everclear was fully kicking in—because the pain of the last ten or eleven stitches was bearable. It helped that Heather was deft, swift, and good at her job.
When she was done, she set the suturing supplies on the table along with the bloody gauze, stuck a clean bandage on the cut, and then knelt in front of him. "I'm sorry I hurt you," she said, gazing directly into his eyes.
He got a knot in his gut—anger mixed with hurt feelings. "Are you talking about the stitches or the fact that you blew me off for Christmas to go hunt a fucking djinn and almost got yourself killed?"
"I'm sorry I almost got you and Sam killed, but I'm not sorry I went on the hunt," she said with unwavering calm. "That horrible..." her eyes shifted as she looked for the right word, "...creep really needed to go down."
Dean rolled his eyes and smirked good-naturedly. "Yeah. That baddie was definitely a no-good scalawag."
Heather smiled. "I need to learn to swear better if I'm gonna be a hunter, huh?"
Dean grew serious and gently held her wrists, looking them over. They were in bad shape after two days of hanging from a ceiling by a rope—chafed, bloody, and bruised. "Your arms and shoulders sore?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, staring down at her wrists ruefully.
He lifted them up and made a production of showing them to her, then stared at her hard. "This really the life you want?"
In typical Heather fashion, she met his stare head-on, her pale eyes penetrating. "Yes. It's in my blood." Dean rolled his eyes again, but she ignored his response, still staring at him intently. "Just like it's in yours."
He let that soak in a moment, not wanting to admit it but knowing deep down she was right. He was a hunter and always would be. He framed her pretty face with his hands and spoke with heavy emotion, his throat feeling thick. "I thought I was gonna find you dead."
She searched his features, remorse flooding her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."
He exhaled a harsh breath through his nose. "Dammit, Heather. 'Worry' isn't the word for what I felt. Try 'terrified.' If you're gonna get your ass killed," he said fiercely, "then from now on, I'll be right there with you. You're not gettin' ganked without me. You wanna hunt, you're doing it with me."
Again, the crooked smile. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Dean. I don't want to live without you, either," she translated.
He kissed her hard on the lips. She quickly opened up to him, inviting him in with her tongue. His blood pressure surged and he staked his claim. She was his love and his life.
And, now, she was his partner.
XXXXXXXX
"Still no answer?" queried Dean, glancing at Sam.
Sam felt a tangle of dread making his chest feel tight. They were thirty minutes away from Moss Fork and the farm—Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean driving. Sam shook his head in answer to Dean's question and pushed the end button on his phone. It was the third time he'd tried to call the farmhouse in the last twenty minutes. He'd been trying the cell phones of TJ and her parents, cursing the fact that Vern recently got rid of the land line because no one ever used it. All three cells went straight to voice mail.
Since the bout with the djinn earlier in the day, Sam's leg had been jiggling and spasming off and on because of his injured hip. Both legs were hurting with the icy-hot phantom pain that, surprisingly, hadn't plagued him for a while; but tonight, the pain was back with a vengeance. The spasticity and pain were sometimes his body's way of letting him know he was pushing himself too hard or that something was wrong. Sam wished his body would shut up. He knew something was wrong.
He'd taken a shower at the motel before they'd gotten on the road in order to get the djinn guts out of his hair and found what was shaping up to be a giant, ugly bruise on his hip—along with several smaller bruises up and down his ribs. His ribs were sore but nothing serious. He'd had much worse in that department.
His hip, however, had looked bad, and Sam was kind of glad he couldn't feel it. He'd been icing it intermittently while they drove, careful not to leave the icepack on his skin too long.
Dean shot another worried scowl his way, which Sam ignored.
Sam knew a bruise this bad could be dangerous. His skin healed slower on the lower half of his body because of poorer circulation, and a bruise could cause a pressure sore if he wasn't careful. Basically, it was a wait-and-see game. There was really nothing he could do but ice it, keep pressure off of it, and hope for the best.
Dean wanted Sam to see a doctor, just to make sure he hadn't cracked a hip bone or something, but the area wasn't swollen like it would be with a fracture. Still, Sam wasn't an idiot. If he thought the bruise wasn't healing or it started getting worse, he would see a doctor. Right now, however, all he cared about was getting back home to his family.
It was late Tuesday night. Heather, who'd been exhausted and sore after her ordeal with the djinn, hadn't wanted to spend five hours in a car, so she'd stayed at the motel with Bobby, Ellen, and Jo. Dean and Sam were now on the final stretch of the trip back to Moss Fork and had been in the car for the last three hours without a break.
Dean kept casting furtive looks at Sam's jiggling leg and making subtle suggestions that they should stop, just for a few minutes. Sam had refused. All he wanted was to get to TJ and the twins. He still had a little time to go before he had to worry about his "schedule." He'd deal with that stuff and ice his hip again after he saw his family was safe. Right now, his SCI issues were the least of his concerns.
The closer they got to the farm, the more uptight Sam got. Every time he'd called over the past two days and heard TJ's voice, he'd been relieved that everything was okay, at least for the few minutes after he spoke with her. But now she wasn't answering, and neither were her parents.
Why wasn't anyone answering? He could maybe see not getting an answer once, but after the third time? And why were all three phones out of commission? Why the silence now, when he was almost home?
Another glance from Dean. "You tried Fern and Vern's phones, too?"
Sam nodded tersely.
"They all have the same cellular carrier, right? It's probably something simple, like the network is down or something," Dean speculated.
"It was working fine when I talked to her an hour ago."
Dean gave a slight shake of his head. "There's gotta be an easy explanation. Maybe the satellite is fucked up or something."
"Since when is anything in our lives ever an easy explanation, Dean?" The more his brother kept trying to come up with a logical solution, the more Sam's nerves were on edge.
They drove in silence for a few more miles when Dean cleared his throat, tossing a surreptitious glance at Sam's spasming leg. "Sam—"
"We're not stopping, Dean!" Sam snapped. How many times did he have to say it? "We're only thirty minutes from the farm, for fuck's sake!"
Dean's jaw hardened as if he wanted to argue, but he refocused on the road without saying anything. Another fifteen minutes passed with Sam trying to call the farm four more times, but he got nothing.
Memories of the night Jessica was killed invaded his brain.
He'd said goodbye to Dean. They hadn't found their father, but they'd had a successful hunt. Sam was feeling good about the fact that they'd helped someone, and it had been good to be with his brother again after two years. He was sorry to see Dean go.
Still, when Sam walked into the door of the apartment he shared with Jessica, the smell of fresh-baked cookies reminded him he had normal now. His life was on track. He had everything he wanted and then some. He had a future. He was in love.
He ate a cookie from the plate Jessica had left out for him and then lay down on the bed. He could hear her in the shower, and thoughts of her put a smile on his face as he drifted off to sleep. He was exhausted.
He woke up to absolute, unadulterated hell.
Jessica—the beautiful, smart, funny, compassionate, sexy girl he was planning to propose to—had been stabbed through her stomach and pinned to the ceiling, her blood dripping onto Sam's forehead. Her lifeless eyes bored into him with shock and horror. Then, with a sudden whoosh, her body ignited and was engulfed in flames.
The memory of that night caused a sickening tightness in Sam's gut that stole his breath. His shoulders and neck muscles corded painfully. Jessica's face kept morphing into TJ's. No matter how much he tried to fight the image, it was so vivid and so real in his mind it was almost like he was having a vision, only there was no head-splitting migraine or nosebleed. Just a foreboding that he was going to lose his wife. It would be typical of his fucked-up, nightmarish life: to lose TJ right after he'd gotten her back.
And what about the twins? Maybe they hadn't inherited Sam's demon blood. Maybe a demon was there now, hovering over their cribs and dripping blood into their mouths, tainting their lives forever.
What about Fern and Vern? Sam didn't want to think about what a demon would do to them. They would be like TJ, a hindrance. Their lives would have no value at all. Sam would lose yet another set of parents.
He was sweating, his breathing rapid, his heart racing.
"Sammy—"
"Drive faster, Dean." Sam's voice was urgent and grim, reflecting the anguish and fear he felt.
The Impala's engine roared as Dean put the gas pedal to the floor.
When they pulled up to the farmhouse, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everyone's cars were in the driveway, and Vern's winter wonderland of lights was cheerfully and blindingly bright. Aside from that, all was eerily calm. It was just like the night Sam had come home to Jessica, when he'd had no inkling his life was about to be shattered.
His hands shook as he hastily put his chair together and transferred from the car. He didn't bother putting on his jacket. When he and Dean entered the kitchen through the backdoor of the farmhouse, Sam almost threw up. The warm aroma of two pristine cherry pies sitting in welcome on the breakfast counter hit him in the face, and his heart hammered with stark, uncontrollable terror, his blood rushing in his ears.
He shut his eyes tightly, unable to move any part of his body. He couldn't face it. He couldn't make himself search the house. He'd rather die now than find them all dead or discover that something vile and evil had been done to the twins. It was too much. He couldn't take any more. He...
"Sam?"
He swallowed hard, wondering if he was hearing things. He was so sure he was about to enter his worst nightmare.
"Oh, my Lord. You're shaking. Your leg..."
He could hear other voices coming from the living room—Dean talking to Fern and Vern; jokes about being stuck in the house all weekend; Dean being teased that Fern only made two pies, which meant Dean would have to save some for everyone else; chuckles from Dean.
Sam felt lips brushing over his mouth, then his eyelids. He could smell the sweet scent of flowers and mint. "TJ?" he breathed raggedly.
Another kiss was his answer, and he opened his eyes. TJ's familiar, beautiful face—so full of life and love—hovered near his for a second until she pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat as close to him as she could. Then she leaned toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you cold?" she asked, brows knitted together in concern.
He shook his head. "Are—are the twins okay?"
"Asleep," she answered. "Rocket's watching over them, as usual."
Sam looked down and clenched his jaw against a tide of emotion, consumed by love and the purest relief he'd ever known. His throat constricted and his eyes burned with embarrassing moisture.
She framed his face with her hands, ducking her head a little to see him better. "Tell me what's wrong." Her gaze swept downward to his neck, and her eyes widened with shock and worry. "Your throat. Oh, my God, Sam! You're hurt." She traced the bruises on his neck where the djinn had tried to strangle him.
More concerned about his hip injury, Sam had hardly given the bruises on his neck a second thought. He grasped her hand, stopping her troubled perusal of his throat, and kissed her palm. Then he placed her palm on his cheek and leaned into it. He closed his eyes, happily losing himself in the sensation of her soft skin against his face. "I'm okay," he said huskily.
"What happened? Was it...bad?"
He swallowed hard, hoping he wasn't dreaming, hoping TJ was really there with him, hoping the djinn hadn't somehow survived and sent him into a coma, hoping he wasn't seeing only what he wanted to see. It was too good to be true, wasn't it? That TJ, the twins, and her parents were all safe and sound? That he hadn't walked into a massacre or that the farmhouse—the home he'd grown to love as if he'd been born there—was still standing? That it hadn't been reduced to a pile of ashes?
TJ was close to him in her kitchen chair, but Sam wanted her closer. Unfortunately, his leg was still spasming, so she couldn't sit on his lap. She seemed to intuit his need and leaned into him, pulling him close to her. He leaned into her, embracing her with all his strength, afraid to let her go. The weight and heat of her body against his was heaven.
They stayed that way for a long minute, Sam trying unsuccessfully to get his heartbeat to slow down while she offered him sweet, silent solace that further threatened to undo him. What was wrong with him? Now that he knew everyone was safe, he was dangerously close to falling apart.
TJ's parents and Dean remained in the living room, probably to give TJ and Sam a few moments of privacy. Dean knew what had been going through Sam's head, and he was allowing Sam a chance to recover.
Sam realized he was probably squeezing TJ too hard and let up. She drew back a little so she could speak, resting her hands on his shoulders. "You're still shaking, and it's not because you're cold." Her brow furrowed, and her gorgeous brown eyes were liquid with compassion. "Why, Sam? Tell me what's wrong."
He tried again to get control of himself, drawing in a breath through his nose and glancing away for a second before refocusing on her. "Why didn't you answer your phone, TJ?"
She stared at him, looking slightly bemused.
"I couldn't get you or either of your parents. I've been trying nonstop."
"I..." She tilted her head, brow still creased, like she was trying to understand. "There was a glitch or something in the cellular service. None of us have had any bars for almost an hour now. It happens sometimes. I think it's because we're so rural, or maybe the mountains sometimes get in the way."
Sam slowly closed his eyes and arched his head back slightly, feeling like an idiot for freaking out but, at the same time, angry the fates were having another laugh at his expense. It must be Scare-the-Shit-Out-of-Sam-for-No-Apparent-Reason Day.
"I talked to you not too long ago," said TJ, "and I knew you'd be home soon." Her expression became apologetic. "Were you afraid because we didn't answer? You thought..." She trailed off, and he saw it on her face when she understood. "All your instructions before you left, the salt lines, the fact that you didn't want us to leave the house or answer the door—this is about what happened to Jessica, isn't it?"
Sam nodded, reluctant to admit it.
TJ framed his face again with her hands. "Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize—if I'd known what you'd be thinking, I would have gone somewhere to call you and let you know we were okay."
"You weren't supposed to leave the house," he reminded her.
"Oh. Right."
"TJ, I..." He was suddenly overcome with emotion again and couldn't speak.
She caressed his cheekbone with her thumb. "It's okay. Everyone's okay."
"If something happened to you, the twins, Fern and Vern, I..." Sam looked fiercely into her eyes. "I want you and your parents—all of us—to have different cellular carriers from now on," he demanded. "No more friends and family discounts." He felt stupid for saying it, but he was serious.
"Okay."
"And I want the land line back."
She nodded. "Okay."
"And—and Skype."
"Okay."
"And—"
"—a very long string with tin cans tied at the ends?" she finished teasingly.
His mouth twitched with a smile, and he answered emphatically, "Yes."
"Morse code?" she quipped.
"Yes."
"A lighthouse in the backyard?"
"With a beacon that can be seen from Canada," he added adamantly.
"Carrier pigeons?" she suggested. "Oh, wait. They're extinct."
"Actually, they're not," he corrected. "It's the passenger pigeon that's extinct." He leaned forward a bit and kissed her earlobe. "Don't feel bad," he muttered into the curve of her jaw where it met her neck. "A lot of people get them confused."
Her breath hitched with pleasure. "You're so full of useless facts." She arched her throat to give him better access. "It's really sexy."
"Mmm," he said, coming up for air and looking at her with a mixture of amusement and desire. "You think the strangest things are sexy."
She kissed him once, then twice on the lips. "Only the things remotely related to you."
"I love you, TJ."
Her eyes were filled with warmth and a spark that promised something far more intimate later on. "I love you, Sam," she drawled softly. "Welcome home."
XXXXXXXX
"Sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt?" asked TJ, arching a brow inquisitively. "You're Mr. Modesty tonight."
Sam shrugged. "Just cold." He usually slept only in boxers unless it was extremely cold outside.
"I'll keep you warm," she offered coyly. She'd just changed into an old set of silky blue pajamas her mom had gotten her.
The corners of his mouth curved upward in a small smile, but he felt uneasy. He knew what TJ wanted, and God knew Sam wanted it too, but he was afraid she would get upset and overreact if she saw the bruises on his side—especially his hip.
He rolled himself over onto his stomach, and she helped him get his legs straightened out properly. His sweatpants were new gray ones she'd gotten him because his old ones had seen better days.
"Your leg is spasming again," she remarked as she pulled up the covers and lay down facing him.
He sighed. "Yeah."
"Are you sure you're not hurt somewhere? You checked yourself thoroughly, right?" she said in her soft drawl.
He closed his eyes and nodded into his pillow. "Just a few bruises."
TJ was quiet for so long that he cocked one eye open to look at her. Her face was unreadable, but he got the vibe she wasn't buying what he was selling. She moved closer to him, dark eyes trained on him. She was lying on her side, one arm bent and her hand resting palm upward between them. He slid his hand out from under his pillow and interlaced his fingers with hers, resting his arm on top of hers. It was like a loose arm-wrestling hold. The warmth of her seeped into him.
"I'm glad you don't do this on a regular basis," she said.
"What? The hunting?"
"Yes."
He huffed. "Yeah. Me, too."
She frowned slightly. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired. I haven't slept in about thirty-nine hours."
She squeezed his hand and lifted it to her lips, kissing the back of it. "So, did Dean say he was leaving tomorrow?"
Sam nodded. "I think he's anxious to get back to Heather, now that they've made up."
"So, what happened with them? I guess they got things resolved?"
"I think so. She's quitting her job. She wants to hunt full time."
TJ's eyes widened. "Wow. Is Dean freaked?"
Sam exhaled a long breath, thinking about it. "I don't think he's as freaked as he was. He was scared shitless he would find her dead, but instead, he found a competent hunter who could take care of herself. He's going back into hunting so he can be with her."
"Well, I guess that makes sense," said TJ. "He loves her. Besides, he doesn't seem like the type of guy that would be happy at a place like Firestone forever."
"He's not. I think he's always worked there because of me, to help with the medical expenses after my injury, but I don't need that anymore."
"Right. We have our own crappy insurance," TJ said wryly.
"Right," Sam agreed. "Dean's tossed around the idea of someday opening his own garage, but, to tell you the truth, I don't think that would make him happy. He was raised to be a nomad and a hunter."
"So were you," TJ said with a sympathetic smile.
"Yeah. But it's never been in my blood like it has his. Dean may say he wants normal, but I think deep down he'll always love the thrill he gets from hunting."
"Maybe with Heather, he can have his cake and eat it, too," TJ mused.
"Yeah. And he'll have someone else to boss around besides me."
TJ's tone was skeptical. "Hmm. I think Heather has a mind of her own—and she's smart. She'll probably go along with what Dean says and then, in the end, do whatever she wants."
Sam smiled. "Yeah. It'll drive him crazy. She's perfect for him." There was a beat of silence, and then he switched gears. "We'll probably see them a lot more often. I hope that's okay. They'll probably use here and Bobby's place in South Dakota as home bases in between jobs."
"Of course it's okay. I'm glad you'll get to see Dean more, and I really like Heather. It'll be good for the twins to have your brother around. He's really good with them."
"Yeah, he is." Sam got a warm, peaceful, sort of nostalgic feeling when he thought of how Dean loved Robby and Sami Joy and how they responded to him. Sam was glad his big brother would be around more, too.
TJ snuggled in closer. As she did so, her knee inadvertently bumped Sam's sore ribs, and he grunted at the sharp pain.
Her brows came together. "I'm sorry. Is...is your side hurt?"
"Yeah," he said casually. "Just bruised a little on my ribs and hip from when the djinn dropped me on the counter."
"Oh, my Lord. Funny how you left that part out when you and Dean told us what happened." She sat up, causing the covers to slide down and letting chilly air into the little pod they'd created. "Let me see."
"It's not a big deal, Teej. Nothing to worry about."
She gave him a hard, admonishing stare, which was undermined by the dusting of playful freckles across her nose and cheekbones. When she spoke, her accent was thick. "Sam Winchester, I might have the mindset of an eighteen-year-old, but that doesn't mean I was born yesterday. You're hurt worse than you're lettin' on. That's why you dressed like a nun for bed."
He raised his brows, "A nun?"
"You're hiding. You don't want me to know how bad it is."
Busted. "TJ—"
She shook her head, effectively cutting him off, and reached for his T-shirt. He deflected her hand and then held onto her wrist, making her hand hover in mid-reach.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Let...me...see."
"No."
"Sam..." she said in warning, her mouth tight with disapproval.
"I can take care of myself," he said. "It looks worse than it is. I don't want you to flip out."
She wriggled her wrist free and pointed her finger. "I'm gonna flip out if you don't show me."
"There's nothing to worry about. I promise."
"Let me see."
"No."
She glared at him; he glared right back. They were locked for a moment in a battle of wills. Her nostrils were flaring a bit when she finally broke the stalemate and said, "Sam, if you won't show me how bad you're hurt, I'll go get Dean."
Sam frowned, indignant that she was bringing out the big guns. "Oh, come on, TJ. You're making a big deal out of nothing. It's my damn body. I'm the one who'll friggin' take care of it!"
She huffed.
"Besides," he said, "Dean already knows."
TJ gave him a skeptical side glance. "Dean already knows?"
"Yes," Sam replied, feeling a bit smug.
That gave her pause, probably because she knew Dean would be hovering over Sam if he thought Sam's injury was dire. She crossed her arms. "Fine. So, are you just gonna keep dressing like Nanook of the North until the bruises go away?"
Sam laughed, eyes wide. "Nanook of the North? I'm just wearing a T-shirt and sweats, Teej. I'm not dressed to go live in an igloo."
"Okay. Then I guess we can't have sex because you don't want me to see the bruises," she challenged.
He gave her a slow, cagey smile. "Last I checked, you don't have to be able to see me to have sex, as long as you can feel me."
TJ stared at him for a second, obviously trying to maintain her ire, but Sam didn't miss her mouth twitch with repressed humor or the desire kindling in her rich brown eyes. "What if I touch you somewhere and hurt you because I don't know where you're injured?"
He reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. "It's not a big deal." He was still on his stomach, and he shifted his head closer to the edge of his pillow and grinned. "And I'll show you where you can touch me."
"You think just because you flash those dimples at me, I'll cave?" she questioned, pretending to be annoyed.
"How about this?" He scrunched his face into the wounded-puppy look she and Dean were always talking about.
She laughed. "I think that look only works when it's sincere."
"Oh," he said, still amused, but then he grew more serious. "I can take care of myself, TJ. Don't worry."
She sighed. "I know. But this is ridiculous, Sam. If the injury isn't a big deal, then let me see. I promise I won't freak. Besides," she said, cocking her head to the side in dismay, "it can't possibly be as bad as what I'm imagining right now. Trust me."
Sam tightened his mouth, wary, but he hated it when TJ kept things from him in order to protect him. They'd agreed not to do that to each other. "Okay," he acquiesced, letting go of her and sliding his hand under his pillow. "Have at it."
She pulled up his shirt first and gently glided her fingertips over his sore ribs. He flinched a little.
She was frowning. "I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"
"No, but it tickled."
"You're so full of it, but at least I feel better. So far, it doesn't look as bad as I thought it would."
He closed his eyes, trying not to tense up, waiting for her to check out his hip. He couldn't feel her slide his boxers and sweats down over his hip, but when she gasped, he knew what she was seeing.
"Holy shit, Sam! Good God Almighty!"
He opened his eyes. "That sounded like you're precariously close to flipping out," he said dryly.
She swallowed, her gaze glued to his hip. He watched as she reached out and very tentatively placed her hand over the bruise. "It's as big as my hand," she commented.
He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, like a bruise the size of a hand wasn't a big deal.
"There's heat coming from it," she said.
"I think that's a good thing. It means my body is breaking down the pooled blood in the bruise so it can be reabsorbed."
After another good scrutiny of the injury, TJ gently pulled his pants and boxers back up over his hip and put his T-shirt back in place. Then she eased down next to him, draped her arm over his shoulders, and rested her head on his pillow, nose to nose with him. "Is that stuff about the blood being reabsorbed something you just made up, or is it for real?"
"It's for real," Sam said with a faint smile. "I read it today when I was skimming SCI forums to see whether I should go to a doctor or not."
"It looks painful."
"It's not. I can't feel it at all."
"That's what worries me. Are you gonna be super careful and keep a close eye on it?"
He nodded. "The good news is, it's not in a place that really gets much pressure put on it. It doesn't touch anything when I'm sitting or if I'm on my stomach. Still, it'll probably take longer to heal because of how my skin works."
She gazed at him for a long moment. "You promise you'll go to the doctor if it starts to get worse?"
"If I don't, I'm sure you'll make me."
She grinned. "I plan to check it quite often."
"Really?"
"Yep." She lifted his T-shirt and leaned in, kissing his bruised ribs where he could feel it. "Bruises need to be kissed on a regular basis so they'll heal faster," she lectured with mock authority.
Sam felt a pleasant quiver down his spine. "Maybe you should kiss everything just to be safe."
"Just tell Dr. TJ where it hurts," she drawled seductively as she kissed her way to the middle of his back. "I'll make it all better."
"Higher," he instructed, his blood pressure starting to rise.
She bunched up his shirt and kissed along his spine, up to the area where his incision scar was. Then she switched from kisses to little, feather-light circles with her tongue.
A groan of pleasure escaped him. He pointed to his earlobe. "I'm pretty sore right here, too."
She gave a throaty giggle and nibbled on the area he'd indicated, then flicked her tongue in and out of his ear.
Every cell in his body flared with sudden heat. TJ filled all five of his senses, and he could comprehend nothing except for what she was doing to him. The only thing his brain was good for was interpreting the different sensations he was experiencing. Things that required cognizant thought were beyond him—things like setting the alarm clock, so he would get up in time for his law school interview in the morning.
TBC