Author's Comment:

Recommended Soundtrack:

Metallica – Enter Sandman

Pendulum - Watercolour

30 Seconds to Mars – Night of the Hunter

Ellie Goulding – My Blood

Chapter Three:

Rock Port, Missouri. 11:55 p.m.

Sunday 21st September 2008.

They were in trouble… serious trouble.

The streetlights flickered overhead as the young hunter and the even younger stalker made their lonely way down the sidewalk, never more than a few centimetres apart, their arms crossed over their chests to keep the cold out. Their incessant flickering unnerved her more than she even wanted to admit to herself. She tried to shake off the feeling, though as the wind picked up she found she had to bury herself even further into the oversized leather jacket, wrapping a protective arm around a dithering Meredith who shivered inside the soft cotton of her cardigan. There was something wrong – she could feel it.

The bar had been her usual stop, a dirty little place on the very outskirts of town, a small hidey-hole off the beaten track that you only ever knew about if you were in the business. No carpets, no rugs, no curtains; just bare wood and windows, a few tables and hard chairs – a bid to frighten off the 'normal' punters that roamed the streets at night looking for a comforting place to drown, though they were not welcome at The Bottle Neck. However, Rebekah and her little party had been made most welcome, a warm embrace from the owner and the owner's son and daughter marking their entrance as seas of Metallica, tobacco smoke and gunpowder washed over them as waves of familiarity, all nerves lost as she and Meredith settled into the usual 'Aston Corner' and ordered their usual drinks, carving yet another line onto the ever growing mass that marked their table-top, each mark a reminder of hunts and travels past. Even Mer relaxed a little, enough to pull a book from her pocket and settle into a cushion in the very corner of their bench, eyes scanning page after page of something or other in Latin that Rebekah didn't quite understand.

And they'd spent hours like that, lulled into a divinely false sense of security as drinks were drunk as often as breaths were breathed, friendly chatter mixed with free peanuts and trail mix, old grizzled men swapping stories with the most unlikely of listeners, Mer even offering her own in return, earning herself multiple pats on the back by the veteran hunters who thought the little creature was delightful. But now Rebekah and Meredith were frighteningly pissed and alone on the Lord's day, Mer stumbling awkwardly down the curb whenever she lost her footing, her baby blue ballet pumps charming in comparison to worn carpet and biker boots but incredibly impractical with regards to uneven tarmac and rain puddles. And Beck couldn't get rid of the feelings that had haunted her the last few blocks, eerie thoughts of shadowy things that had even managed to breech the crafty liquor defences she'd painstakingly built all evening.

But she could not See, and her Sight did not come to her. And – as far as her alcohol-addled brain was concerned, if there was something worth worrying about she'd have warned herself. Ergo, no vision – no problem.

"Something's wrong, shut the light
Heavy thoughts tonight
And they aren't of snow white
Dreams of war
Dreams of lies
Dreams of dragons fire
And of things that will bite, yeah."

The song had been played repeatedly over the old jukebox at the bar, a typical hunter song sang by a typical hunter band with a typical hunter message, the whole thing laced with a giddy undertone of irony. And Beck broke the silence with that very song, words echoing out over the empty street as she attempted to ease her nerves with the comforting nostalgia that came from the lyrics, the type of thing Joe would sing to her in the back of the pick-up to help her sleep, nights where she'd be left alone with one of the dogs as protection whilst her big brothers went out and battled and killed the very things that appeared in the lyrics, the things that crawled out from beneath her bed or from the shadowy depths of her closet. Meredith picked up on it immediately and joined in with her own off-key bell-like tones, slurring the odd word, the hazy green glow of the 'Greenfields Motel' neon sign appearing as they rounded the corner into the nearest alleyway.

Sleep with one eye open
Grippin' your pillow tight
Exit light
Enter night
Take my hand
We're off to never never-land

Meredith Parkes had always been one step ahead of her, even when they were children. She was faster, she was smarter and she was far quicker – though when it came to instinct and intuition the young Aston had the upper hand. But it was speed that saved the little tiny human from becoming another crime statistic, and no amount of instinct could have saved the hunter from her impending fate, her body connecting heavily with the chain link fence that had run the length of the last three blocks, the metal wire cutting rivulets into the skin of her back as she fell to the floor, her elbows cracking painfully against the tarmac.

"Fuck – Mer. Run!"

Above her head streetlights sputtered into life before plunging themselves into death, sparks raining down over the heads of the girls as bulbs burst in their sockets, small fragments of glass collecting in the creases of their clothes. Meredith remained frozen as their section of the street lurched into complete darkness, her back against the wall, her hands clasped over her chest as though she was praying. Even in the dark Beck could see her eyes were wide, her expression that of a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun. She rolled onto her back and sat up, her hand coming away from the back of her head wet, sticky and far darker than it had been before, the skin on her back burning as though she'd been whipped. But there was nothing – no one around.

"Meredith – get the fuck outta' here. Now!"

But she didn't move. Rebekah did not know if it was through loyalty or through fear that the little creature refused to obey her commands, but the hunter was too drunk and too frightened to care which.

"Meredith! Go!"

And then she moved, faster than anything Beck had ever seen. Like a true to life Cinderella a single blue slipper remained behind, the other having been kicked off a little further down the alley as the little Stalker rounded the corner and disappeared, Rebekah letting out the breath she'd been holding ever since she'd got it back. Being alone was one thing, but having to watch her back and protect the petite little bird in her charge would have been near impossible – especially when whatever it was that had been shadowing them for the last few blocks had the ability to throw her full body into the nearest fence. Meredith knew that and accepted it. It was one of their unspoken rules. When Beck said run – she'd run.

Rebekah dragged herself up off the floor awkwardly, stars appearing in her vision as she rocked unsteadily on her feet, her head light and completely disconnected, eyes roaming every inch of anything in a vain attempt to seek out the problem. Ghosts didn't haunt alleys – spirits were attached to places and objects, not roads. The only other thing-

"Exorcizamus te, omnis im-"

She was knocked cleanly off her feet, her path blocked by the metal wall of the nearest trashcan, the impact reverberating through her head, making her teeth chatter. She groaned openly, holding her head in her hands as the world once more attempted to right itself. It was typical – absolutely typical.

"Stop fuckin' throwin' me around you demonic prick," she grumbled as she heaved herself up for the second time, spitting blood into the nearest puddle, wiping the saliva away from her lips with the back of her stained hand.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

She pulled a pistol from the back of her jeans and aimed a shot in the direction of the voice, the bullet embedding itself into its shoulder. He seemed unsurprisingly indifferent, almost bored as he dug his fingers into the warm flesh of its vessel to dig out the small metal cap, flicking it the ground with a 'clink' at her feet as though nothing could have interested him more. His face was illuminated only by the green Exit sign that hung above the door of the apartment block to her right, his black eyes dead and unmerciful in the skull of what would have once been an innocent bystander, the poor bastard having his night made by a satanic soul and a semi-plastered, trigger happy moron who preferred to shoot first and ask questions later – as was the Aston way of doing things. Beck snarled at the demon as he squatted in front of her, easily slipping the pistol from her slick hands, giving her hair a quick ruffle as he did so as if to reinstate the fact that she was incredibly, almost ridiculously, out of her league.

"Ah – sorry. Did that hit a nerve?"

Her spitting at him gained her nothing more than a back-handed slap to her right cheek and a split lip, her tongue weighed down heavily by the own taste of her metallically sweet blood. It had picked an entirely unattractive vessel, an old greying thing with a belly to rival the Buddha's and a scent so foul it almost managed to turn her stomach, probably something it had picked up off the streets on its travels – almost like a souvenir. But it was strong, sturdy and had the ability to take a bullet as well as a wall could take a car crash, and in that respect the demon had chosen well. Because it knew she had the ability to batter it to within an inch of its existence, they all knew that, so why take a Ferrari to war when you could take a tank?

"I'm so sick of you bastards showin' up and ruinin' my nights," she sighed, almost laughing as she wiped yet more blood away from her mouth. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"We thought so too – but hey," it shrugged, tossing the pistol down the alley, "we like dropping by."

It even had the audacity to offer her a helping hand as she tried to stand, an offer she hesitantly took despite herself. Its hand was cold like ice, the skin calloused and hard beneath her own soft touch, fingernails blackened and cracked down the centre; but its grip was like iron and she could already feel the bones in her hand straining under the pressure it exerted against hers, her knuckles popping and cracking as she wriggled in its grasp.

"You see Beck – we don't learn. Neither do you. Every one of us you kill or send back-packing back to hell you get another ready and rearing to go. All your little exorcisms and petty little powers manage to do is piss off the boss – and when the boss gets pissed we get punished. So who benefits really?"

From somewhere not far enough away she heard a scream, a strange and inhuman sound that reached their ears horrendously and hideously mutated after having bounced from wall to wall, a noise that made the hairs on Beck's neck rise. She could see her own face reflected back at her in the blackened eyes of the demon that still held her close, a frightened little thing with wide blue eyes and a frantic expression that spoke of fear and of desperation, not the face of an expert hunter who still had a grip on things. The little girl's reflection shifted suddenly, startled as another shriek rang out across the empty street, a cry that rang with her own name though that too had been mutilated by the journey, the whole thing echoing eerily down the alley until it escaped down the other side.

"Don't you fuckin' touch her," she shrieked, pulling against him. "Mer – Mer! Meredith. Oh my God! Mer?"

Streetlights fluttered back into life sending floods of white light down the length of the alley, burning away the shadows to reveal the full extent of the carnage. Corpses of rough sleepers, apartment inhabitants and even the marred body of a police officer lay scattered, some with their eyes open, others looking as though they were sleeping if you were strong enough to ignore the organs that had been spilled haphazardly across the sidewalk. Rebekah heaved then, completely out of character, an alcohol-weakened stomach and nervous disposition mixing badly with the smell of rotting flesh and blood that hang stale on the air – the concoction fraternising even worse with the old worn leather of the demon's shoes. He threw her to the floor none too gently after that, letting her get it out of her system, allowing her the time she needed to get her breath back. She'd bumped into many a demon in her time, but this one had to be the most polite and most patient specimen she had ever encountered.

"Are you quite done?" He asked, flicking the worst of the vomit off his shoes with a folded roll of newspaper.

"You son - of a bitch," she gasped, feeling far fainter than she'd felt in a long time. She winced as another scream echoed down the alley, sending another convulsion through Rebekah's body despite her best efforts to hold it back. "I'll – I'll kill you," she muttered, dabbing at her lips with the material of her shirt, "just - give me a sec'."

"Lovely – really. I'm looking forward to it. Seriously I am."

Why did he have to be a sarcastic son of a bitch? Why did they all have to be sarcastic sons of bitches? Just for once she would have appreciated a straight talking, semi-serious demon but obviously that was far too farfetched!

She felt awful – seriously fucking awful. She'd been drunk before, so pissed she'd thought that up was down and right was up, believing that a walk home from the bar had been a walk home down the side of a building. But this was a different kind of awful, an unbearable weight in the stomach that couldn't be shifted no matter how many times you were sick. Her arms wobbled under her weight, her legs shaking like leaves beneath her body as she attempted to stand, her whole weight leaning against the cold metal that would remain indented by her body print for as long as the thing remained in use, a constant reminder to the people of the apartment buildings either side of her that someone had been stupid enough to stand against the thing that had massacred more people than a week had days.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

He Pulled her legs from beneath her, forcing her to fall to her knees, the impact jarring every bone in her body up to the nape of her neck. She hissed as she felt the blood begin to soak through her jeans, the grazed skin sticking to the inside of the denim, tearing further whenever she moved. She jumped at the sound of a gunshot, tears of a different kind of pain stinging her eyes. Mer didn't carry a gun, not on a night out. She looked up at him from beneath her hair as he placed a heavy finger beneath her chin, his rough hand caressing her blood-stained cheek once before his knuckles came into contact with the base of her jaw, jarring her head back and sending the air whooshing from her body, her mouth tainted crimson as she bit clumsily into her tongue, tears spilling down her cheeks as she gasped for air.

"You don't learn do you – you fucking inept waste?"

She'd killed every single one of them Satan had sent her way – casting them back to the pits of hell with whichever exorcism jumped to her tongue, but she was grossly outmatched in this instance, almost pathetically so. She was drunk, unable to See – no better than any girl her age walking the streets without protection, her brother's pistol lying in a puddle far too far away for her to Pull – not that she even had that in her. She was as good as dead.

"You're in luck," he sighed, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair, "we're not here to kill you – regardless of the boundless amounts of pleasure that would give me – we've got a message for you."

"From who," she spat.

"Samantha."

(*)

Rock Port, Missouri. 12:08 a.m.

Monday 22nd September 2008.

It had been a long day for both boys but an even longer night for Sam. Dean had scored at the bar leaving the youngest Winchester alone at The Bottle Neck in the company of the locals – not that he minded too much. The hunter bar had been warm and friendly despite the calibre of the company, the usual 'trucker types' lounging around in the bare chairs chucking beer down their throats as though their existence depended on it, but the owner and her kids had been nice enough and had even taken pity of the poor boy with the sour face, offering him a drink on the house and a bowl of peanuts to keep him company in his brother's absence. But Dean had returned for him as he always did, and at midnight the boys had decided that they'd had enough and were in the process of making their rather wobbly way back to the motel – a place that hadn't seemed as far away as it did now.

Sammy liked hunter bars for more reasons than one. They were comforting, familiar and welcoming to the lost souls that walked through their doors to seek solace at the bottom of a glass, but apart from that they were living libraries of information. If Bobby didn't know – pop into a hunter bar and ask a local. Google not giving you what you need? Can't find the burial place of this or that person? Go ask a local at the nearest hunter bar. But there'd been an unusual topic of conversation that night, old mouths buzzing with fresh news and information, of stories far more farfetched than those that usually passed from between their lips. There were talks of demons and of crop failures, of the usual things such as ghosts and gas prices, but in between the traditional hunter chatter came whispers of a man back from the dead, rumours of a man who'd escaped hell and was walking amongst the living. Even the landlord and her kids had gathered around to listen to the stories, most unbelieving, though others swore by their sources. The conversation was fleeting – the older veterans becoming entranced by a little pixie-like creature who, after much coercing, shared with them tales of things even Sam Winchester himself did not believe in. He'd turned his back on the group after that, returning to his own upside down world of Dean and demons, his phone lying blank and unresponsive despite his texting as he'd waited on his brother's return.

"Something's wrong, shut the light
Heavy thoughts tonight
And they aren't of snow white
Dreams of war
Dreams of lies
Dreams of dragons fire
And of things that will bite, yeah."

Dean Winchester, however, was in incredibly high spirits. He was partially pissed and almost completely unaware of just about everything save his brother's more sober presence at his side, his face still wearing the smile it had worn for most of the night, especially after he'd scored with the waitress after she'd got off work. The chill in the air couldn't remove the blush from his cheeks nor dampen his mood, and his singing stood a jubilant tribute to the quality of the night he'd had. This was the best he'd felt since getting back from hell, and that was a very good thing indeed.

"Smile Sam – come on, it won't kill ya'."

His brother rolled his eyes at him as they rounded the corner, his arm shooting out the grab his brother's as Dean took one step too far, his foot slipping down the curb, concrete slick with rain.

"When we set off – I'm driving."

Dean batted at his brother's hand and shrugged his skewwhiff jacket back onto his shoulders, his hands awkwardly patting his ass to check for his pistol as Sam regarded him with a somewhat disgruntled expression.

"Dean you need to-"

The boys dived into the nearest shadow as the first scream of the night echoed out across the barren waste of Rock Port's outskirts, instinct tugging their bodies even closer to the walls of the old apartment building at their backs. Dean's gun was already in his hand, loaded and aimed, Sam's fingertips slightly less responsive, hovering hesitantly over the cold metal grip of the pistol that still sat holstered in the back of his jeans. Both boys winced as another shriek emanated from the unknown source, this time laden with a name though that in itself was inaudible. The hunters exchanged nervous glances, Dean's lips set into one long, thin, straight line as he took a step forwards, Sam's hand grasping his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" The youngest Winchester hissed.

"What does it look like I'm doing Sam – really?"

"Dean – I know we can't just stand here but you have no idea what's going on round there and-"

"Then let's find out genius," Dean muttered, signalling for Sam to follow him.

They'd seen some shit in their time, but more often than not by the time they got to the scene the victim was already dead. But this one – well she was very much alive. She was quick too, probably the fastest thing on two feet the boys had ever seen, but the men that had swarmed her were faster and far more persistent, and when it came to big versus small big often won. Sam was forced to turn his head as she was thrown to the floor, probably for the umpteenth time, her limbs cracking against the pavement, the skin grazed clean from her bare arms and knees as she shivered in a damp pile on the floor, her clothes torn, feet bare and bleeding. But instead of attacking again they waited for her to get to her feet, her blackened knees quaking, her own arms crossed over her chest in a vain attempt to hold what was left of her together. Even Dean was surprised when she didn't run, despite the fact that her attackers had parted to allow her room to escape – not that they'd actually let her go.

Sam turned his brother's attentions to the streetlight above their heads, his finger following a row of blackened bulbs that led to the alley that ran down the other side of the apartment building. The usual silent conversation was quickly followed by their usual silent argument, flying arms, hand gestures and facial expression all facing off against one another until, finally, it came down to the usual game of rock, paper, scissors. Sam could have sworn Dean didn't even try.

"Dean – try not to kill anybody. They're just guys," Sam muttered as he checked his bag for holy water. "No police."

"Scumbags Sam – they're just scumbags."

"Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself okay?"

"And you just try not to get yourself killed – no freaky exorcising shit Sam. Do it the old fashioned way."

With a nod, Sam took off down the alley the way they had come, turning back only to see Dean safely round the corner, another scream making his ears ring, a gunshot quickly following. They were just guys – just human guys. Dean would be safe and sound and definitely in his comfort zone beating the shit out of scumbags, especially beating the shit out of sick bastards who thought they had the right to attack a lone woman in the middle of the night. He'd hear about it later sure – how sick humans were and how you could trust a demon to be bad exedra, but he decided to cross that repetitive bridge when he came to it.

He hesitated at the crossroads, his breath frosting in front of his face in white plumes as he, unlike Dean, attempted to sort through a battle plan. The inner workings of Sam Winchester's mind were a logical state of affairs, nine times out of ten. Panic rarely set in unless someone he knew was involved, and whenever that occurred educated guesses and instinctive reactions usually got the job done as well (if not a little messier). Demons were demons, they all had the same weaknesses and they could all be sent packing back to hell with the same Latin exorcisms and harmed with the same holy water, iron or salt. Demons were demons. Demons were always demons. Sam Winchester therefore, in his mind, knew exactly what to expect.

No he did not.

"You don't learn do you – you fucking inept waste?"

Sam took a deep breath, gun at his chest, head rocking on the corner of the building as he psyched himself up to dive in, the dregs of the demon blood in his system reacting to the situation, sizzling and popping inside his veins. He could hear his heart in his ears, something he never, ever told Dean, something he always kept to himself. It wasn't fear, just natural reaction – something he couldn't control.

"You're in luck," it sighed, "We're not here to kill you – regardless of the boundless amounts of pleasure that would give me – we've got a message for you."

"From who," someone spat at it.

"Samantha."

He bit his lip and rounded the corner, keeping close to the wall, shielding his eyes from the startlingly white light that flooded the alley, bulbs of the streetlights straining against the power of the electromagnetic force the demon's presence was giving off. And there it was, a great hulk of a thing, its greasy grey hair slick against its balding head, clothes hanging like grimy rags from its body. It had its back to him as it bent down, Sam wrinkling his nose at the filthy ass crack that greeted him, knowing he would have much preferred to look at its face instead of the place where the sun never shone. It shifted to the side as it straightened itself up, black eyes narrowing as it scanned the alleyway, Sam ducking into the nearest patch of shadow cast by an incredibly bloody and dented dumpster.

"It seems your luck is limitless," he sighed, running a hand through its hair. "Sam, Sam, Sam. Come out, come out wherever you are."

Fuck. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swore under his breath, smacking his head against the metal of the dumpster as he cursed his own pathetic attempts at being covert over and over again. He was seriously out of practice, so used to having Ruby do the dirty work and him clearing up afterwards he had no idea how not to charge in anymore. He could already hear John's voice incessantly buzzing at the back of his mind, pointing out all his mistakes, what he should have done differently, everything Sam knew Dean would have done first time round.

"Oh Sammy boy!"

Sarcastic son of a bitch.

"Alright – alright!" Sam muttered, rolling out of his hiding place onto his feet, his pistol aimed at the very centre of the demon's chest, though his bullet wouldn't be the first to penetrate the creature's flesh.

She was knelt in a way that made it seem as though she was praying, something that threw Sam off entirely at first. But then he noticed the blood that stained her jeans at her knees, the blood that seeped through the cloth of her shirt or that that matted her hair and that that had painted her lips. Her eyes were dead and drowning, scarlet tinted tears running down her cheeks wherever water came into contact with an open cut or graze, her skin deathly pale in contrast to the crimson liquid that continued to drip from her parted lips, face blank, emotionless, switched off. He'd expected demons alright, just not that.

But, beneath all the grime and the matted blood, he recognised her face. He'd clocked her at the bar, the girl accompanying the little pixie creature – the one that talked about faerie and other such ridiculous things whilst she'd sat in the corner and smiled, swigging a beer, carving things into what must have been her family table. She was a hunter, a hunter that was obviously completely out of her league, more used to hunting ghosts and werewolves – not the demons that now seemed to plague the darkest corners of every single town they came across. She was a hunter – she definitely looked like one. Killing her would be a tally point on the chart of the demons, but tormenting and killing the other girl hardly seemed fair – more like collateral damage than anything else. He felt ill.

"You know what I can do-"

The demon raised an eyebrow, "I do. But you're running low on gas Sammy-boy. I've wanted to meet you ever since Lilith put a price on your head."

"Well," Sam sighed, spreading out his arms, "here I am. Come get me."

"Do you think I'm that stupid you moron? What – do you expect me to come running into your arms?"

"That would be nice."

Sam eyes flicked from the demon's to hers, her eyes still running red with tears despite her efforts to wipe them away with the mucky sleeve of her shirt. She was local; he could tell by the accent in her voice that she had not travelled far, probably a girl just passing through to her next job – unless this was it. He hadn't missed the corpses that lay strewn at the other end of the alleyway, but none had moved and where therefore unworthy of his help for the time being. Maybe that was her job – disappearances, murders, more collateral damage, those were definitely the sorts of things that would have pulled them off a case if they'd been passing through.

"He recognises you – you can't know him surely?"

"From the bar," she mumbled into her sleeve, wiping away more of the blood that still dripped from her mouth. "We're yet to be acquainted though."

Sam was at a loss. They spoke as he would speak to Bobby, so casually it was almost implausible. A demon and a hunter – he'd never had an actual conversation type conversation with a demon before, especially when said demon had battered him into a bloody pulp to within an inch of his life. But the girl had a look on her face – the look of a person who seemed to know exactly what she was doing despite her grave, near hopeless, situation. And, as if to reinstate that fact, she winked at him, her fingers dabbing gently at the blood that pooled in a little scarlet puddle at her collarbone.

Keep it busy.

He let off a crack shot, hitting the demon in the shoulder, the bullet hole symmetrical to the one that had punctured the other side. And, from the sheath at his belt, he pulled Ruby's knife. Immediately the look on the demon's face fell from an expression of cocky assuredness to a haunted glare, its black eyes roaming the length of the blade in his hand, the thing rocking backwards and forwards on its feet as it tried to decide whether or not to run or charge. But either decision would have been irrelevant, because her gory task was done, a complete devil's trap drawn in blood onto the flat metal wall of the dumpster at her back, holding the demon that stood before her in place like a rabbit in a snare.

She heaved herself to her feet, Sam sprinting forwards to offer her a hand which she thankfully took, though her face remained entirely grave despite her apparent appreciation. She sobbed once as a breath choked her throat, Sam passing his arm behind her back as she wobbled slightly on the cracked heels of her boots, another gunshot making her shiver inside her skin.

"Thank you," she managed to mutter, tucking a strand of blood-matted hair behind her ear. "I owe you one – Sam?"

"Sam yeah."

"Oh this is lovely – really."

Both hunter and huntress returned their attentions to the demon that was busy pacing its trap, the invisible walls that surrounded the creature corralling it into a steadily tightening circle.

"Can you just send me back to hell – please? I've done my job. I'm not going to kill anyone… else. She knows that," he sighed irritably, gesturing towards her with an open hand.

"Is that true?"

She shrugged.

"Oh come on!"

"Does that knife k-"

"Kill it? Yeah."

Sam looked down at her, only managing to catch a glimpse of half her face through her wild hair. Her attentions were on nothing but the knife that he held in his hand, need and want blatant in her blue, glassy eyes, her lips set in a line though, as seconds passed, even she managed to force a smile, a haunting look that didn't reach her eyes making her look – well – almost demented. He allowed her to run her fingertips across the blade, bloody fingerprints remaining on the clean, polished silver of the knife-edge, an awe-filled sigh escaping her as she dropped her hand heavily to her side.

"Then do it," she whispered, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Pleasure."

(*)

She wouldn't stop fucking bleeding – like everywhere.

He hadn't had a choice. When push eventually came to shove, Dean shoved and he shoved hard. He'd shot two of them, taken a stab wound off the one before slitting a throat and the fourth one – well he was an accident and wouldn't be brought up in conversation. If asked, he'd deny it. He'd simply added the bodies to the pile in the ally, all weapons dumped in the nearest dumpster. When (not if) anyone came upon the scene, it'd look like a crazed gang had lost their shit and taken out a load of innocents before ganking themselves, one getting 'unfortunately' caught up and crushed in the madness – again – an accident.

He'd found her motel keys in her purse and rushed her back as fast as he could, the little creature barely weighing a thing – he'd carried heavier bags of sand. She'd passed out from shock a while back, but that hadn't stopped the bleeding. Dean perched himself at the foot of her bed, head in his hands, feet tapping against the lino tiles of the motel floor as he contemplated his next plan of action. He'd cleaned and bandaged her feet, removing all the shards of glass and stones with a pair of tweezers he'd found in her bathroom, disinfected her cuts and grazes with some antiseptic wipes (also discovered in the bathroom) whilst treating himself, using the real thing making him feel somewhat pampered, knowing full well that a bottle of hard alcohol and a towel between his teeth would have been his answer to such a predicament if he'd been in his room – though Sam had the keys. He hadn't undressed her – that seemed so wrong in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Even for medical reasons he couldn't bring himself to even take off her cardigan, though that itself lay ripped and useless around her shoulders and would have been more use off than on.

The oldest Winchester took to pacing the room, the only sounds being his feet slapping against the tiles and her even breaths. She was a pretty little thing, he had to admit. Under all the cuts and bruises and grazes she would have caught his eye if she'd walked down the street, though he'd have had to have looked down to get a good look at her face. But he couldn't see the real girl lying on the bed, the girl he would of hit on hard if she'd been at a bar and he hadn't got a pistol shoved down the backs of his jeans; all he could see was the fragile little bird lying motionless and dirty against the cheap pink sheets, baby blue nail varnish chipped and dirty where blood and dirt had forced its way underneath, lips still somewhat glossy despite the night she'd had.

Slowly and carefully Dean bent down and applied a damp flannel to her brow, dabbing away at some of the dirt and grime before leaving her to rest, content to comb the room through, looking for anything else he could use as a bandage (the supply in the bathroom dangerously low). Her room was exactly like his accept hers had been decorated with a more – feminine clientele in mind. There was a vase of fake flowers on the bedside table, alongside which stood a small cask of salt and a book titled 'Rituale Romanum', a battered old leather bookmark splitting the book in half, red ribbon fraying at the edges from use. The hunter frowned as he inspected the contents of the table, eyes flicking to the other side of the double bed where an identical vase of flowers, salt cask and book lay – though this book was untitled, front, back and spine all made of the same worn brown leather hide that his own father's journal was made of, strings of ribbon, bits of paper and strips of leather sticking out from the pages in various different places, marking key areas of reading for future use – just like theirs.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered as he pulled back one of the pillows, a pistol and anti-possession amulet lying beneath like chocolates in a hotel.

That explained – fantastically little. He threw the pillows back in place and took another look at the young woman lying in the bed, more colour flushing her once white cheeks, a good sign that all was well. She definitely did not look the type – seriously did not look the type. She was far too small and – well dainty. Like a doily… or a sparrow. He couldn't imagine her taking on a werewolf or wendigo with a shotgun in her hands – that was just ludicrous. What the fuck was going on?

Dean jumped slightly as the door burst open, his brother slipping through the crack he'd created with yet another girl in his arms, his entrance marked by a chorus of barking dogs. Sam was sweating as though he'd run a marathon and, after slipping the second girl gently into Dean's waiting arms, turned around and kicked the door shut just before a dog the size of a wolf barrelled into it, claws scraping down the painted wood on the other side. Its yapping face appeared between the blinds of the window, then again at the other window, Sam irritably shutting the curtains on the thing.

"Is that-"

"Hers? Probably."

"So-"

"I'm not gonna' let it in Dean! It'll kill us."

"Right."

This one was heavier than the last and far, far longer. She was all arms and legs – and hair, though the vast majority of it was matted to her head with blood, grit and puddle water making it incredibly difficult for the eldest Winchester to untangle himself from the lot of it as he attempted to lay her down on the bed next to her friend.

"Dude," Dean sighed, stretching his arms out above his head, joints popping in his shoulders, "what the hell happened?"

"Demon," Sam muttered, disappearing into the girl's bathroom, tap hissing into life. "Got rid of it though so we're all good." The young hunter popped his head around the door, Ruby's knife in one hand and a tainted towel in the other, the type of thing they'd have to take with them and dump somewhere so that no questions were asked (just like the bed sheets and the vast majority of other towels, flannels and material based objects they'd furnished the room with). "How did it-"

"Go? Well. Problem solved."

"Without killing-"

Dean shot his brother a look.

"Right."

"Did you know they were hunters?" Dean muttered, pulling the pistol from beneath the pillow, turning it over in his hands to examine it.

"Her – yeah? The little one – not a chance in hell."

"I dunno' Sammy – maybe it's getting popular – like a new breed of hunters, all small and dainty and – breakable."

"Sounds great," Sam sighed, a clean damp towel in his hands. "Though I seriously doubt that Dean."

Dean observed as his brother set to work on the other girl, his large hands remarkably gentle when it came to dealing with her various injuries, most of which were bleeding profusely or were clotted with all sorts of added extras that you did not want healing into your skin. Sam (unlike Dean) seemed to have no qualms about undressing the patient to get to the problem and Dean, being the gentleman he was, politely averted his eyes as his brother set to work sponging the worst of the blood off her back, taking a quick peek to marvel at the diamond shaped bruises that were beginning to appear against her skin from where she'd obviously been thrown hard into a fence, his keen eye noting the anti-possession tattoo she wore on her lower left hip as his brother rolled her gently back over.

"How long has yours been out?"

"Passed out after I shot the second guy – I think she just sort of malfunctioned – like an overload or somethin'."

"Ah."

"Yours?"

"Boy do we need names for these two," Sam sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "Erm – she went on the way back - I only had to carry her a few blocks, but I had to grab her gun first," he muttered, flinging the pistol onto the nightstand.

Dean snorted, "You look like you've carried her more than a few blocks Sammy."

"The dog chased me for a few of them."

(*)

Sam lay stretched out against the sofa as best as he could have managed, his legs bent at the knee over the arm, the tips of his boots just about brushing the tiles as he shifted in his sleep, mouth clamped shut, hands clasped on his stomach as he settled into the cushions. Dean took a swig from his beer and kicked back on the legs of the chair, stifling a yawn as he flicked through his dad's journal, all the pages memorised, his own mucky fingerprints marking almost every page from where past-selves had spent their night's doing the same thing, mindlessly reading text and written scrawl they'd already read a million times over in an attempt to pass time and stop themselves from thinking. But he couldn't stop himself, and as his mind wandered he found himself thinking about what Sammy had been up to in that alley by himself, knowing full well he could have turned dark-side again for a moment without his brother at his side, knowing that demon could have had its bags packed for hell by Sam's freakin' demonic sixth sense shit he had going on. And that, more than those scum beating the shit out of the girl with the blue nails or the demon tormenting the lanky chick, made him feel sick to his stomach.

Dean took another gulp of beer and settled the bottle back on the table, his fingers mindlessly picking at the label. He still looked like his little brother, his floppy hair covering his eyes, his foot twitching slightly as he dreamt about something Dean could only speculate about. But he'd seen him with his own eyes – seen what he could do. Bobby always said family didn't end with blood, that was like his freakin' mantra. But when it came to Sammy he just had no idea anymore. He looked like a little angel, just a drawn out version of the kid he'd used to tuck up in bed at night whilst dad was away, the kid he'd taught to shoot straight and tie his shoelaces, both the former and the latter being at about age twelve. Dean emptied the bottle and pushed it across the table, leaning back on his chair and reaching for another from the fridge. But at some point Sam had grown out of him, grown above him, and when he'd left that had fucking stung more than anything. But this – Dean would take Stanford over this.

The older hunter rolled out of his chair and crept steadily to the sink, carefully filling a bowl with water and another with the leftovers from their takeaway chicken, placing his bottle soundlessly into the trash. The gust of wind that washed over his half naked body took his breath away, a cold winter night blowing away as many cobwebs as it could before he shut the door behind him, his body reacting to the chill of the night violently as he dithered and danced on the spot, hairs on his arms erect as gooseflesh spread across his exposed skin. And there it was, lying alone and alert on the deck above the steps, the thing that had chased his brother lord-knew how many blocks to the front door and scared the living shit out of him in the process. It raised its head warily as he took a step towards it, placing both bowls down in a blatant show of what Dean saw as solidarity, hesitant as he made to approach the animal, hand outstretched and shaking. It took his affection with an almost indifferent expression, its nose hovering over the bowl of chicken scraps and bones as Dean bent down at its side, his numbing fingers fumbling with the animal's collar.

"Alistair eh-" he muttered, giving the great thing a ruffle between the ears. "Don't you worry. We're taking good care of them. Don't worry. There's a good boy."

Dean spent the night outside, jacket shrugged over his shoulders, Alistair lying long and warm at his side. He preferred his own company that night, feeling trapped and bored inside, his mind constantly switching from the condition of the two strangers they'd saved from death to the boy that had done it. Dogs were simple and honest – as was the night. There was nothing complicated about feeling cold, nothing mysterious about an animal's loyalty and warmth. The massive creature had accepted his presence and his offering within minutes, and as Dean continued to talk to it Alistair seemed to placate further, even allowing the oldest Winchester to rub the warm fur of his belly, something (unbeknownst to Dean) the dog had never let anyone outside the Aston bloodline do. It made Dean happy, made him feel more peace than he'd felt in a long time. Neither man nor dog slept, and as the light of morning washed over their chilled bodies and banished away the warming haze of the green neon, one after another the two boys closed their eyes against the glare of dawn, embraced by a light and incredibly comforting sleep, another thing neither Alistair nor Dean had experienced in a long, long time.