Dean ran his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. Whatever he had expected to hear in there; it certainly wasn't that. Sam tried to get his attention with a quizzical look, but Dean couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. He was still processing what Ripley had told him, however he knew one thing for certain—he would take the specifics of her story to his grave.

"We need to get her out of here," he told his brother once he had found his voice. "Deal with the locals, I need some air."

He went outside, leant against baby's door and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. He'd seen the photos and even a few of the victims in the flesh, and felt that there had to be something else in the mix. Ripley was a difficult one to place, quiet—although he suspected the reason for that was the fact that he intimidated her to the point where her thoughts stuttered—but not afraid to puff her chest out and give you a piece of her mind, he'd found. She was a little odd, always tailing him around the bunker, but again he thought there was more to it than just a Becky-type fixation. He was having a hard time accepting the sparrow of a girl could massacre all those people.

After a minute or two the station door opened and Sam came out, followed by the tiny Ripley. She was hugging herself, wincing whenever Sam tried to touch her. Dean opened the back door for her and she slid in, curling into a ball on the leather. Sam gave him another puzzled look, and he brushed it off, climbing in and pulling out, heading for the nearest motel. Once Sam had gotten them a room and they'd coaxed Ripley out of the car and inside to a bed Sam turned to Dean, who was still leaning against the hood of the Impala.

"What did she say in there?" He shook his head at his younger brother. "Dean, tell me what happened."

"I can't." Dean's throat was dry, and he took a shuddering breath to clear his mind. It didn't help.

"You're gonna have to give me something. What, was it a demon—was she possessed? I mean, there was sulphur at the diner so it is a possibility."

"No."

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "'No'? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means a demon didn't do it."

He popped the trunk and grabbed his bag, ignoring Sam's questions as he walked into the motel room. He chucked his things on the table by the room's window, turning to look at Ripley. She hadn't moved a single muscle since she'd sat down. He wrenched his tie away from his neck, shucked his jacket and tossed them aside, rolling up his sleeves. Just as he knelt down in front of her Sam came in, latching the door as he shut it.

"Ripley," Dean spoke in a soft voice, however he still caused her to jump violently. She had been worlds away, trying not to think of God knows what. "Why was there sulphur at the diner?"

Her bottom lip trembled and her breaths became rapid, her silent demeanour almost crumbling. "A…a d-d-demon…"

"What did the demon do, Ripley?" Her head snapped towards Sam, standing by the table.

Dean paused, seeing the fear in her eyes as she looked at his brother. He stood, drawing both their gazes as he rummaged through his things until he found an old silver bottle with an ornate cross engraved onto the surface. He held it out to her, and when she took it he heard Sam let out a little sigh of relief. Test one had been passed; she wasn't a shape-shifter.

The room grew tense as her slender fingers unscrewed the bottle's lid and tipped it, pouring some of the contents over her hand. Nothing. She wasn't possessed. Dean took the bottle back from her and put it away, noticing with a slight frown that the water seeping into the carpet had been turned pink. He cursed and rushed back to Ripley, taking her hands into his own. She shrieked and jumped when he made contact with her skin, trying to shake his hands away, however failing when he grabbed her wrists, forcing her to calm down. The thin wooden splint keeping her broken finger straight had snapped, and it had cut her finger pretty badly.

"Didn't that hurt?" Sam asked, grabbing some bandages and handing them to Dean. "Why didn't you say anything?"

For a brief moment, her eyes found the older brothers' and they simply stared at one other, Dean understanding the reason perfectly. It had been self-inflicted. Since she had done so much evil she was punishing herself. He finished wrapping up her finger, binding it to the one next to it to restrict mobility as a make-shift cast and stood, running a hand through his hair.

He knew Sam would probably catch on soon, if Ripley kept this act up. He couldn't think properly, he couldn't wrap his head around it right. She was so timid and just so…quiet. He didn't think she could have a monster inside of her. The Mark twinged on his arm and he grabbed it reflexively, the burning sensation prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam raised an eyebrow, causing Dean to let go of his arm quickly. He scratched the back of his head, shaking away the chill creeping up on him.

"Hey, Sammy,"

"Yeah?"

"Flip you for the sofa?"

Dean expected not to sleep at all, and he wasn't disappointed. He lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling while willing his brain to forget some of the images from the police report. He sat up and rubbed the Mark lightly with his thumb, frowning to himself in the dark. A sudden restlessness overtook him, a desire to do something just so he could exhaust himself and go to sleep. He slipped into the bathroom and leant on the basin, needing to move but not knowing where to, lights still off but his eyes accustomed to the darkness. He stretched, forced a yawn and laid himself back down on the couch, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. No matter how hard he tried, it avoided him.

He wouldn't think of the murders, the carnage Ripley left behind; bodies torn apart, blood everywhere, a man impaled in his truck by a metal pipe, a kid with his throat torn out, a teenager who worked at the diner with oil burns all over his hands from working in the kitchen, his head bashed in with a rock, or the fact that the blood was still fresh even as the police began to clean the evidence after it had been recorded, that there were still drips running down the counter from where a waitress had her skin gouged into so deeply that the muscles were visible. He wouldn't think about the itching sensation in his limbs whenever he thought about these sights, the fact that his hands wanted to grip something and slash and tear or the way that his stomach seemed to convulse inside him so vigorously it felt he could cough it up, that feeling urging him to shed blood, telling him to create some carnage of his own. He wouldn't think about this longing inside of him, something calling out for a weapon, something that felt like an ancient yearning for a blade so he could slice and rip and join Ripley next time she lost it.

He lurched upwards, panting heavily, his body drenched in sweat and shaking violently. For a few moments he was disorientated—the room wasn't supposed to be this light at some ungodly hour in the morning, was it?—until he realised he had managed to get a modicum of sleep and it was now morning.

Sam's bed was empty, made and his suit was laid out on the covers next to his bag. Ripley was sitting up, still in bed, her back resting against the head board staring vacantly into space.

"Morning." He yawned, standing and trying to stretch out some of the cramps in his back. "Where's Sam?" he asked, not really expecting a reply.

"Out for a run." Ripley was obviously a million miles away, lost in her head like she had been last night, but her words (despite being very quiet and said in the voice of someone distracted by their own thoughts) were clear, not a single sound stuttered.

He just stared at her, a little surprised to hear a clear sentence come from her without any anger behind it. There had to be something wrong, he thought, jokingly at first but after studying her more closely he really became to believe it. She looked very pale, her white skin making her reddish hair look extremely bright. Her eyes, with their mixture of green and grey were unfocused and flat, no emotion making the colours blaze. She seemed very fragile to him then, sitting in bed wearing one of Sam's shirts which was obviously more like a nightgown to her. His heart twinged again as her appearance reminded him of Charlie, and for a moment he wondered how their geeky sister was faring in Oz.

Slowly his mind tuned back into the present, and he noticed the dried blood smeared just under her jaw and down her neck. "Ripley," She didn't respond at first, and after calling her name a couple more times it seemed to register in her mind that she was being summoned. She blinked at him. "Go take a shower, wash the blood off and get clean. We'll go grab some breakfast and bring some coffee back for Sam." When she didn't move he clapped his hands to get her attention again and pointed to the bathroom forcefully like a parent scolding a child. "Now. Don't make me tell you again."

She slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, and he only relaxed when he heard the water running. What was he going to do about her?