Days passed. Days turned into one week, and then two. And then it was exactly nineteen days and eleven hours since Ripley had disappeared.

Dean had let his brother drag him around on hunts and continue the search for Abaddon while he looked for her daughter; neither of them had any luck. Their hunts turned out to be busts, the red-headed Knight remained as elusive as ever and when Dean tried to call or summon Crowley there was no answer. His frustration grew and after the second day he began leaving various threats and colourful insults on the King's voicemail.

He made a habit of wandering around the Bunker like a ghost, feeling the cold tiles under his feet and the chilly air prickle at his bare arms. He had no idea why, but he often found himself in the rec room where he'd first spoken to Ripley, following the path she'd taken, running his fingers over the chips in the wooden chairs and tabletops. After a couple dozen laps, he'd then pour himself a drink.

It was on this nineteenth day in the unseemly hours of the morning when the world was still sleeping that Dean, beginning to sober and stumbling back to his room, felt the Mark tingle and begin to burn. He felt a pull, like someone sapping his strength through his arm; his knees buckled and he had just enough control over his body to clutch his gut like it was being ripped up by a hellhound and shout his brother's name. It was the first word he'd spoken in days, so his voice was hoarse and carried through the silence of the bunker.

The patter of running feet was quiet, and suddenly Sam was there, pulling him to his feet, both of them stumbling along the halls until they reached the library. The lights were already on, piles of books crowding the tabletops and crates of files stacked everywhere.

Sam lowered his brother into one of the leather reading chairs by the shelves, both of them staring glumly at the other in silence until his curiosity go the better of him and the younger Winchester asked what he'd been burning to ever since Dean had left him and Cas by the side of the road.

"So what happened?"

Dean simply blinked at him. He was about to ask what do you mean? but he had a feeling his brother was talking about his most recent collapsing episode.

"I don't know man," He rubbed his head, pressing the heel of his hand into his temple in an effort to get it to stop throbbing. "One minute I'm walking along and the next I'm down for the count."

"And this has nothing to do with the Mark?"

"I don't even know anymore." Dean slumped in the chair, too drained to even contemplate lying to his brother. They tossed ideas and wild theories around for a few hours before Dean's eyes couldn't take it any longer and began closing of their own accord, his mind slowly slipping out of the conversation.

Next thing he knew, Sam was shaking him awake, the main lights glaring down and the smell of coffee enveloped him. He yawned and tried to glance at his watch, but his eyes weren't working properly yet.

"Dude, what time is it?"

"Seven thirty."

Dean groaned. "In the morning?" He struggled to his feet, stretching and not quite balanced. "Why did you wake me up at this delightful hour?"

"Cause," Sam said, practically throwing a cup of black liquid at his brother. "I found us a case. Nothing to do with our demon troubles, but it'll help us take our minds off—" there was a pause, like he was about to say her name. "—Crowley, and…all of that. We need to step back from that mess. Anyway, the town's a couple hour's drive and the crime scene'll still be fresh."

The black stuff in the cup was coffee, straight and bitter with nothing added to it, starting to go cold. eHHHderiokfgnhblrqnwfglk

He downed half the contents in two gulps. "Awesome," he said, yawning and wandering to his room. As he stumbled down the chilly halls he fingers brushed the Mark and it stung, like it was suddenly an actual burn on his skin. His head was down as he walked, concentrating on his arm, so he didn't even notice when he turned the wrong way and ended up in a room that wasn't his.

When he looked up he was standing in the doorway of the room they'd given to Ripley, the light off and the air growing heavy with his feelings of regret.

"Why can't I help you, Ripley Mitchell?" He asked the space quietly. He could have spent all the time in the world waiting for a reply and he would have been quite content to do so, if not for Sam's voice echoing down the halls reminding him to have a shower and pack a bag. Somehow he forced life into his legs and he stumbled to his room, barely seeing the clothes he threw into a duffel. When he stripped off and stood under the shower head it took him several minutes to realise that the water wasn't running.

Sam had to pound on the bathroom door to get him out of the shower, and he spent way too long drying off and getting dressed. He put his shirt on backwards and didn't realise until he was standing in the garage waiting for his brother, and Sam pointed out the tag.

"Maybe I should drive?"

He didn't respond verbally, but tossed the keys to his brother and slumped in the passenger side. He knew, as Sam coaxed the engine to life and the Impala peeled out of the garage and down the road, turning left onto the highway, that he was burning to ask Dean more than what he'd hinted at last night. Like why he was defensive about Ripley, how he was so intuitive about her, almost like he knew her the same way he knew Sam, and why Dean was so protective of a girl they'd barely gotten to know over the past couple of weeks since they'd pulled her from an abandoned mansion stained in blood. He also knew there were more painful questions. Why had Dean let Sam come back to the bunker with him after Garth and the werewolves—lycanthropes—whatever, when he knew Sam didn't want to reconcile? Why didn't he trust Sam to help him with the Mark? And why did he want to leave Cas out of it all?

He tried to go through all the answers in his head, drawing blanks on more than he liked. The angel had almost been as unwilling to help when it came to Ripley as Sam had been coming back to the Bunker, which struck Dean as incredibly strange. No matter what the problem, Cas had always seemed to help as much as he could. But with this—with Ripley and Abaddon and the Mark—he was…if Dean didn't know any better he'd say reluctant, but that wasn't Cas' style. No, the angel was wary, Dean decided; his guard was up and he was trying to mask his concern the best he could by trying not to interfere. Nothing was ever that easy for the Winchesters and Cas, Dean knew that much.

"Hey…hey, dude, earth to Dean? Did you hear me?"

Dean blinked, brought out of his reverie, not entirely sure where he was.

Sam was bent down and staring at him expectantly through the car's window, a shallow frown creasing his forehead. The Impala was parked in front of a motel, the room directly opposite the parking space had its door chocked open and Sam's bag was on the only visible bed. He'd been sitting in the same position for hours, and Dean found his back and knees clicked when he stood, something twinging in his neck as he rolled his shoulders.

He chucked his things on the bed, going straight for his suit without so much as a word to Sam, despite how concerned his brother must have been. Dean assumed the old F.B.I. routine would be the standard play until he saw the files Sammy had spread out on the table, the report describing the victim.

Injuries: Victim's skin is gouged and abdomen is 'torn' apart, bruising on wrists indicative of a struggle against assailant, additional bruising on neck accompanied by small cuts. (Possibly pinned down from above? Small cuts may be nail indentations.)

Weapon: Knife, fingernails (unlikely), possibility of claws.

Assailant: Witness claims assailant was "not human"

Dean's eyes kept coming back to fingernails, remembering Ripley's victims at the diner. Skin is gouged.

"Hey Sam," he called, his brother poking his head out of the bathroom door at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?"

"Did you pick this case because the way the victim was killed?"

Sam frowned. "What d'ya mean?" Dean's eyes hadn't left the page until that moment, and his stare was steel, masking the fear he felt that Ripley had killed again.

"Do you think she killed this girl? Is that why you took this case?" He began forward, and as he did his brother stepped out of the bathroom, backing up a little as Dean advanced. He felt heat rising through his body; anger, fear, hatred and something else he couldn't really identify, but it let him square off to Sam.

He could see he'd put Sam on the defensive. "I picked this case because you needed a distraction, and it was the nearest one—hell—it was the only one that seemed like our kind of gig."

"'Our kind of gig', huh?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant!"

"So all that about us not being brothers," Dean crossed his arms and stood firm. "Was that all crap? Because you suddenly care what happens to me again?"

"I'm not starting this again. Now come on, are we hunting or not?"

They stared at each other in silence, each daring the other to take a swing, start yelling, do something violent. Minutes passed, and without warning Dean moved away, fishing his leather shoes out from the bottom of his rucksack. He glanced over, seeing the surprise on Sam's face as he began to dress. "You gonna get dressed or stand there like a chump all day?"

It was the standard routine, but there was an underlying tension between the brothers all day creating some awkward moments when people noticed, and Sam finally cracked, picking at the fresh scab while they sat in the local diner waiting for lunch.

"There's a lot we need to talk about, Dean," He began, (unsuccessfully) trying to get his older brother to look at him. "There's stuff I need to sort out if I'm ever going to trust you as my brother—"

"Oh look! My burger."

Dean proceeded to ignore Sam for the rest of the day. If he didn't want to be brothers, then Dean could play along for as long as Sammy wanted. He'd wait for him to sort all his shit out and then, before buying him several cases of beer, he'd sock him in the jaw for this tantrum. Not that that's all Dean thought this was—he knew it wasn't—but right now he was sore at Sam for putting him through all of this, just because he saved his little brother's life. Because that's what he'd always done, and that's why he tracked down Cain to get the First Blade and stop Abaddon. Everything boiled down to saving his family, his one giant Achilles' heel. Every bad guy they faced had to have gotten the memo by now. Zachariah had known it, all those years ago, and Crowley for a time there too (when he wasn't a complete wuss) had been quite cunning.

Turns out there actually was a case in town, with three people dead thrown in ditches and the latest one found under a Dumpster. And they were all torn apart.

"What could have the strength to do something like this?" Sam was sitting at their table, pictures of the victims spread out in front of him whilst families and couples were smiling and chatting around them, enjoying their meals and having a good time.

"I have no idea. Werewolf?" Dean placed their drinks on the patches of table not covered in gory photos.

"But none of the hearts were taken."

"Demon?" Sam was about to say no when Dean thought of something. "We didn't check for sulphur or EMF at any of the crime scenes. What about the toxicology reports for the victims?"

There was a shuffling of papers as Sam tried to find the right page. "Odd. There isn't a toxicology report."

"What?" Dean took a bite of his burger and used the opportunity to think. "Maybe one of the cops is our monster? Or someone in the M.E.'s office?"

For the remainder of the night the brothers ran through all the officers they'd met and seen and tried to narrow the list of suspects down. Nobody had acted unusual or suspicious around the boys that they'd noticed, at least. The case nagged at Dean, tugging at the back of his mind for hours. He found himself lying in bed, the clock ticking and ticking and ticking—suddenly it was half past one, then two forty five, then four ten and then, when he opened his eyes again—the sun was weak and watery, peaking through the curtains, a beam of light at the edge of the window edging towards his pillow. All night, one thought had wormed its way into his mind, an infected wound that was starting to fester.

The murders. They had to have been Ripley. There's no other explanation.

It was haunting. The image of sweet little Ripley, covered in blood and guts, as red as her hair, drowning in it. He might have been dreaming, or hallucinating from a lack of sleep, but it seemed so real that he was almost convinced it was true. Almost.

He heard Sam rise and move around, getting into his running gear and softly closing the door behind him. Once his brother was gone he sat up, yawning and stretching his arms, groaning at how heavy his limbs felt as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, bracing against the basin. He looked up into his own face and saw massive black and purple circles, he seemed paler; hair dishevelled, cheeks gaunt and eyes sunken and small but at the same time almost bugging from their sockets. His shirt was sticky with sweat despite the cooler weather, and after he showered to freshen up a bit his stomach began complaining. So he threw on a jacket and left a note for Sam, promising coffee and possibly a bagel when he returned.

The sun had been up for maybe about an hour, and it wasn't doing a very good job at warming anything. Instead, dew slicked the concrete outside, the air bit at any exposed skin and the wind felt like he was being dipped in a room full of ghosts. He couldn't get into the Impala quick enough.

He found a roadside coffee stand and waited with the other customers in line like zombies, barely articulate and only able to form one syllable sentences. When his order was finished he unlocked the Impala and sat numbly, eating his bagel on autopilot and as he reached for his coffee the Mark twinged and stung. He simply stared at the spot on his jacket like the heat coursing through him could burn the cloth away, trying not to let the shaking in his hands grow. Dean could feel anger and hatred boiling inside his chest, eating away his lungs making his breath feel like fire. It was so intense it made his vison blur and ears ring; he scrunched his eyes until white static appeared, until the pain began to lessen and it felt like the muscles around his eyes weren't working properly—that his eyelids were too heavy to lift—until they snapped open. But what he was seeing wasn't the trees next to the coffee stand.

He was standing, back pressed against stone, a rope running behind the pillar leaving his hands tied. The room around him was dark and hot, moisture making the air feel like sludge. His clothes and hair were damp with sweat; it dripped from his hairline and off the red strands that fell into his eyes. Wait…red hair? I don't have—that's when it clicked—this is a vision. I'm seeing through Ripley's eyes.

He had to get as much information as he could before it faded.

Despite the lack of light through the room, Ripley could see vague shapes, looming shadows of other pillars, cabinets and cupboards scattered in the dark. Without warning the temperature spiked and then dropped to below freezing. Her body began shaking, teeth chattering as violent tremors wracked her limbs—like a seizure—but much worse. It lasted for so long that when heat began creeping back into the room her body barely even reacted, but Dean noticed.

"Well, well, well," Dean knew that voice; he could pinpoint it anywhere. Crowley stepped from the shadows with a gloating smile on his face, his hands behind his back, his long coat slightly damp like he'd been out in rain. "How are we today?"

"Fuck you, Crowley."

She spat, pulling against her restraints. Hard. So hard, in fact, Dean felt the hot trickle of blood as the rope cut her wrist. How he hadn't noticed the pain before was confusing, almost like he was a step out of tune with her experience, but now that she was bleeding he could feel the sting of the still cool air. Her emotions were a whirlpool of rage, annoyance, fear, curiosity, bloodlust and adrenalin all boiling away at the same time, making it really hard for Dean to concentrate on what was happening and being said.

"Now, now, love, mind your tone." Crowley was saying, and he pulled a wrapped package out from behind his back. A spark of recognition made Dean's heart stop for a moment. He knew the shape, he knew the pull on his arm and the same sensation was tingling through Ripley's entire body and soul; she craved it—no, more than that—she needed it like an addict who was on the verge of death without their next fix. Dean knew because he had nightmares about this yearning, which had started up when Magnus had forced him to hold the First Blade. It chipped away at her mind, breaking down her will. She didn't want to want it—she despised herself for needing to touch that blade, to hold it—she could feel the First Blade's power pulsing from the cloth bundle in Crowley's hands despite him standing on the other side of the room.

"Why am I here, Crowley?" She pulled against the rope again, with more urgency. Ripley didn't want to be there, near the Blade. She was afraid.

"I know you wanted to go home," The King mused, turning the weapon over in his hands. "But I had to be sure you weren't in league with your mother."

Her anger spiked. "Seriously, what the fuck? My friend needs me and you're keeping me here in case I'm going to go running back to the Supreme Bitch? Are you insane?" Dean noticed then that she hadn't been stuttering her way through sentences like she usually did, her voice clear and strong, her accent somewhere between Australian and English—something he'd only just noticed—and he began to wonder if it was linked in any way to the presence of the First Blade and the anger it seemed to manifest in them both. "Look, I get you can keep me here for as long as you want, but I really need to go. He needs my help!"

Dean felt there was something he was missing here, some vital piece of information that would have made the entire experience just a little less confusing. Ripley and the boys had been acquainted for just under a month now, and as he watched her struggle to persuade Crowley to let her go he realised just how little he actually knew about her. It would have been a great help if either Sam or himself had taken more of an interest in her life or gotten to know her better, instead of being solely focused on the case at hand.

As he watched her struggle he felt a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach, and without warning he was back in his own body, staring at the woods, hand reaching for his coffee. He shook his head, as if to clear it of any lethargy and went to take a swig of the drink still sitting on the dashboard, but when his fingers brushed the cup he froze. The coffee was cold, beginning to chill along with the air inside the Impala, tremors started wracking his spine, moving through his bones to his fingertips. Teeth chattering, he forced life into his numb hands, almost dropping his phone more than once as he tried to unlock it. He had eighteen missed calls and about thirty texts from his brother.

Bring me back a bagel?

How long does it take to get coffee?

Dude where are you? Call me back.

DEAN.

DEAN.

PICK UP.

DUDE.

DEAN PICK UP.

ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

SERIOUSLY OK, THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

He scrolled down, reading the worry in the texts and its increase as the hours dragged on. Sam's last message was a little over fifteen minutes ago, at midday, roughly four hours after he'd left for breakfast.

Dean took a couple of deep breaths, starting the car up and turning the heating on before heading back to the motel, and he'd barely pulled up when the door to the room flung open, revealing Sam, fury mixed with concern written all over his face. He stepped out of the room, holding his arms out in question as Dean got out of the Impala.

"What the hell, Dean? Where were you? I drove around for like an hour and searched the entire town!"

Drained, legs barely able to hold his weight, he stumbled into the room, collapsing onto his bed. "Did you do any work on the case?" It took everything he had not to fall asleep then and there. He had to squeeze his hands into fists and let his fingernails bite his palms to keep his eyes open.

"I talked to the victim's family—nothing out of the ordinary. Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"No." Dean let the weight of his shoulders pull him backwards

"'No'?" All of a sudden Dean could see his brother's head looming over him. "What the fuck is going on with you? You're collapsing every five minutes—when you're not on edge and begging for a hunt—and then spacing out for hours on end! And you can't say this has nothing to do with the Mark because the whole ride here you were holding your arm like it was about to fly off if you let it go."

There it was, then. They'd finally reached it.

Boiling point.

Sam wouldn't just ignore it anymore, and now Dean couldn't brush it off or ignore it. As exhausted as he was, Dean knew he wouldn't be able to convince Sam to drop it until morning, he had no chance now.

So he forced his body upright—with a little help from his brother—and described the pulling sensation he'd been experiencing, the tugging at his soul, deep in his gut. He told Sam about the burning and fatigue, about the almost hypothermic vision and how he'd felt Ripley's pain and fear. He shared his insane theory which had begun forming slowly in the back of his mind ever since the vision; that somehow, the Mark was connecting him to Ripley, telling him where she was back in Lebanon, showing him where she was after she was kidnapped by Crowley.

After he'd said everything he could think of, he finally let his back thump onto the bed. He was so tired, he didn't even remember falling asleep.

NOTE

Hi guys! it's my first time using this platform to upload my works so bear with me while i get the hang of it!

This is all I've got so far, it's still getting to the juicy stuff ;) I'll upload each new chapter as i go, and if any of you have Wattpad you'll know i sometimes take a while to get my chapters finished and uploaded, so my bad in advance!

Let me know what you think so far! :D