Dean threw Crowley to the floor and jerked to release his brother's grip. "I'm fine." He muttered, looking towards the girl on the floor where they'd left her. He crouched beside her and took her chin in his hands gently, tilting her head upwards towards him. She was unconscious, her breaths coming in very shallow, short gasps as if she'd been running a marathon. Ignoring Crowley's jab at him being a knight in shining armour, Dean lifted the girl into his arms and made his way out of the abandoned mansion they'd tracked the demon to.
He was surprised at how light she was, and despite the muscle definition on her arms and shoulders she had a very lithe, bird-like frame that he knew made her incredibly agile.
Sam appeared at his side as Dean got to the foyer, opening the back door of the Impala and helping his brother ease the girl onto the black leather. "I'll drive," Sam said, and Dean knew it wasn't a question. "You look...tired...you should get some sleep. It's five hours back to the Bunker."
Dean didn't protest as he slid into the passenger seat and rested his head on the window, wishing for but not getting any sleep. What Sammy didn't know and wasn't going to find out for as long as Dean could help it was that the Mark wouldn't let him sleep. He hadn't slept properly eighteen days en counting, unless he counted last week when he'd drank until he passed out but awoke three hours later to an annoyed Crowley calling to ask if they'd found Abaddon yet.
They arrived at the Bunker just as the sun was peeking over the treetops, Sam holding the door open for Dean and his load. He left his brother to bury himself in research or whatever it was he did—Dean meanwhile kicked open the door to the only other bedroom in the same hall as his and put the girl gently onto the bed.
Her flash of red hair was a mess—he immediately thought of Charlie and smiled—but this girl's was much shorter, cut to just above her collarbone. It was curling slightly at the ends, forming ringlets that shone slightly bronze—her hair wasn't actually completely red, he found, unable to take his eyes away—there were hints of a darker colour similar to his own. Her delicate features were slackened by a lack of consciousness, but she was very beautiful, angular cheekbones, slightly pointed ears and straight nose tickling something at the back of his memory. Her long reddish-bronze eyelashes were long, tickling her cheeks, the dark pink splash of her lips seemed very bright against her lily-white skin. There was blood—a few not-so-small flecks of it—on her right cheek and much more on her neck. It stained the front of her white shirt and was smeared across her arms and black jeans. He couldn't help but notice the curves of her body in all the right places, and he had to pinch himself to force movement into his limbs.
He turned off the light but left the door slightly ajar, doing the same in his own room after kicking off his boots and throwing his jacket to one side. He once again begged for sleep but it wouldn't come. His mind wandered to the look in the girl's eyes as she hacked into the demon and the poor bastard he'd been possessing. There had been no humanity in them, the green-grey steel cold and as unforgiving as Abaddon's own eyes. He shook the image of her twisted face from his mind and looked around his room, eyes not settling on anything in particular. The green light of the digital clock beside his bed showed it was nearly six. There's probably no point trying to sleep anyway. He didn't think he'd convinced himself that he wasn't tired but he rose and headed for the kitchen, hoping he hadn't already drunk the rest of the booze.