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Dean took a bite out of a Twinkie. "A psychic?" he said, his mouth full. "What, like Missouri?"

"Naw, she's somethin' else. They call 'em Confessors."

It was early evening and they'd ordered a pizza, letting Bobby get the door, just in case. Sam watched Dean fidget and pace the room, trying to find something to do. His brother hated being cooped up in one place for too long, but there was nothing they could do about it; there was no way to find out if they were wanted without risking their hiding place being discovered. After two hours of Dean's antsy, meaningless activity, Bobby had finally snapped and told Dean to stop climbing the walls and do something useful.

Dean, true to form, had dug out a box of Hostess snacks and started eating.

Sam stroked absently at the mark Merida had left on him. It itched in a distant way, but otherwise, it didn't bother him. Not yet, anyway.

"Do we wanna know how they got that name?"

"Prob'ly not," Bobby conceded, "but you gotta know anyway. Confessors are psychics who pal around with the dead and dying, gettin' them to confess their sins, wishes, that kind of thing. Helps the spirits move on to wherever they're set to go."

"So she's a ghost whisperer," Dean said, nodding. "Think she's ever seen John Edwards on one of his crossover missions?"

"That's how she knew about Dean," Sam said, ignoring him. "She mentioned the deal," he explained when Bobby looked confused.

"I'll bet," Bobby said. "She ought to know all there is to know about you two, considerin' all the dead people who've crossed paths with ya."

"It also means she knows about you, Sam." Dean finished the Twinkie and opened another. "Your whole psychic visions deal. It's probably how she made us in the first place."

"That's what I came to tell ya." Bobby drew his flask out of his pocket. "She's gonna want you, Sam. She's probably pretty powerful on her own – Confessors aren't exactly run-of-the-mill – but you're in a whole 'nother league, boy. You're lucky your brother was there to save your skin."

Sam pressed his lips together. "Yeah, Bobby, I know. I screwed up. I'm sorry."

Bobby waved him off. "Ah," he said. "Can't say I blame you. She's quite the looker, in a Jack Skellington sort of way."

Sam looked embarrassed, but Dean chuckled. "You should have seen him, Bobby. He was leaning up against the fence for support before she even laid her mojo on him."

"What exactly did she do?"

Dean spoke before Sam could get a word in. He leaned against the fridge in a crude approximation of Merida's posture. "She was all, 'Oh, Sam, the dead chick was an airhead, tee hee hee!' and Sam just stood there, grinning like one of those racist dolls we saw in Shreveport-"

"She touched me," Sam interjected, scowling at Dean. "On the face!" he added quickly. "And then I got dizzy and almost passed out-"

"His body wasn't ready," Dean said through mouthful of yellow cake.

"And she was whispering something…it sounded like a song."

Bobby frowned. "That all you got?"

"They got interrupted before they could finish," Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Neighbors."

"It was some guy walking his dog. He saw Dean holding us at gunpoint and pulled out his phone," Sam explained. "She threw a rock at him. Knocked him out cold."

"Yeah, she's got one hell of an arm. She got the best of me once when I was hunting a vengeful spirit in Helena. The shiner she gave me lasted for two weeks. Looked like a battered wife."

"You?" Dean tossed the empty Twinkie packets into the trash at sat down at the table with them. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Welp, she was there to take the spirit's confession, I was there to burn its bones. Conflict of interest. She let the spirit take possession of her and proceeded to kick my ass."

"And then?"

"I woke up on the floor of the haunted shack. Spirit was gone, so was she."

"So that explains the nails," Sam said.

"Nails?"

"The vics the banshee killed. Their faces were clawed like they'd been cornered by a snow leopard. DNA from the nails was human."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Son of a bitch. She let the banshee take possession of her. And now, whenever it's on a mission-"

"It can do physical damage, too," Sam finished. "What about the mirrors?"

"They were broken, weren't they?

Dean was surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know? You didn't mention mirrors when I called you."

"That was before I knew who you were dealing with."

Sam leaned forward. "What about them? Can they hurt her?"

"Naw, not really. They can expel the spirit, though. In a nutshell, when a possessed confessor looks into a mirror, they get an eyeful of their true reflection. It's too much for the psychic's mind to handle, and it expels the spirit and returns the psychic's body to equilibrium. She probably broke the glass before the banshee killed the girl."

"And she cleaned it up because she knew we were in town."

"Looks that way."

Dean flipped through a book Bobby had brought, not really reading it. "Okay. So for some reason, she's allowing this banshee to ride her like a cowboy and kill a few McLaughlins. Considering it's only been nine days since this whole thing started, I'd say things are going pretty well for her."

"Thanks for the recap, Dean. I feel a lot better about our chances now."

"My point," Dean continued, "is that all her ducks were in a row. If she hadn't tried to roofie Sammy, we wouldn't even know she existed. So why'd she clue us in?"

Bobby sighed. "She wants Sam."

"Yeah, you said that," Dean shot back, his voice sharper than it had been, "but what for? Doesn't seem like she needs him, to be honest."

"She's not the only one, kid." Sam could tell that Bobby didn't want to say anything more, but he knew Dean would never let that sit. "I talked to Ellen. I told her to ask around, see if she could get any more info about your banshee."

"And?"

"And a lot of things would like to get their hands on Sam. Word about the devil's gate is out – not that it was ever really under wraps – and lotsa folks think Sam here is the key to setting things right. She's been deflecting other hunters as best she can, but they know she's in bed with you. Won't be long before they stop listening to her advice."

Dean muttered something under his breath and got up from the table, pulling two beers from the mini-fridge.

"Is that how you heard about Merida?"

"Lots of psychics do a little hunting here and there – they have to, if they want to stay alive – and hunters talk. Ellen heard she was up this way sending spirits on, and when I mentioned the banshee, she told me to get my ass up here and make sure you two had a heads up."

Sam smiled weakly. "Remind me to thank her the next time we meet. Does she know if Merida wanted me for a specific reason, or…"

Bobby shook his head. "Could be to ransom you to other hunters. Anyone looking to open the devil's gate. Or summon demons. Or send 'em to hell."

"Back at that house," Sam recalled, "she said she was trying to help me, even if I didn't believe it. What do you think she meant by that?"

"Son, I don't know," Bobby said, "but you'd best steer clear of her. Nothing good's like to come of you mooks crossing paths again."

"But-"

"Quiet." Dean sat down again. "We're gonna track with bitch down and kill her dead, and the banshee along with her."

Sam frowned. "She's human, Dean. We can't just kill her in cold blood."

"I didn't sell my soul to a brunette in a little black dress to save you just so you could be auctioned off to the highest bidder by a Christina Aguilera look-alike. You'll do what I say, Sam. We kill the monsters. Both of them. End of story."

"I can't fucking believe this."

Dean shoved another pillow between them, frowning and tugging more blankets to his side of the bed. Sam did his best to get comfortable, but he doubted Dean was going to make it easy. His brother was a hard sleeper, and they hadn't slept in a bed together since they were teenagers. This is gonna be a long night, Sam thought.

"It's not that bad, Dean," Sam whispered, not wanting to wake Bobby. There had been no more free rooms at the Shining Star motel, and there were only two beds in their room. Neither of them had had the stones to ask Bobby to share. "We've done it before."

"Yeah, when we were both five seven and a hundred and fifty pounds. How the hell am I supposed to get any sleep with your giant ass taking up all the space?"

"Maybe if we moved some of these pillows–"

"Forget it, sasquatch."

"What, are you afraid I'm gonna cop a feel while you're sleeping or something?"

"Not in so many words."

Sam froze. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You're a cuddler. Always have been."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. I'll wake up at two a. m. and you'll be scaling me like a tree."

"That was one time! I was having a nightmare!"

"It was at least three times."

"You-"

"Don't make me get out of bed, you two," a gruff voice muttered from the other side of the room. "I'll bring my gun."

"Sorry, Bobby," Sam muttered, shooting Dean a glare he couldn't see.

"Kiss ass," Dean whispered.

"If you're so worried about my cuddling, why don't you sleep on the floor?"

"Fuck you, it's like eight degrees. At least you provide heat, even if you're a bed hog."

Sam tried to think of a witty retort and came up empty.

Dean snickered.

"Shut up."

They lapsed into silence for a while.

"Dean?"

Sam felt Dean shift. "What?"

"I…"

"What is it, Sammy?"

"I'm not gonna quit, Dean."

"What?"

"Trying to break you deal…"

"Oh, my god."

"I mean it."

"Please don't do this right now."

"When then? You never want to talk about it any other time."

"God damn it-"

"I was dead, and you gave up everything to bring me back."

Dean sighed.

"I haven't forgotten that. I'll never forget that. And I'll never stop trying to save you. I'll do whatever it takes. I just wanted you to know that."

Dean chuckled. "You sure do know how to turn up the awkward dial, don't you, Sam?"

"You left me no choice, man."

"Whatever."

"I mean it, though. We're gonna get out of this. You'll see."

A few more moments passed in silence.

"I don't really know what to follow that up with," Sam said.

Dean laughed, trying to keep it to a whisper.

"You can just stop there, I think."

"Seems anti-climactic, though, doesn't it?"

"It's okay. 'You'll see' is a good ending line. Could use a music score, though. Something with violins. Or a slow piano solo."

"Maybe the theme to A Walk To Remember?"

Dean's laughter rose above a whisper and he coughed to cover it.

"Why am I not surprised you know the theme to that movie?"

"It was one of Jessica's favorites."

"Yeah?"

"I fucking hated that movie."

"Aww, did it make you cry, Sammy?"

"It's a cancer movie, Dean. If you don't cry, you have no soul."

"Is it worse than Titanic?"

"Nothing is worse than Titanic."

"That'd be a good song, though, wouldn't it?"

"Don't you dare, Dean."

"Near…far…wherever you are…"

"Shhh." Sam said quickly, tensing.

Dean fell silent, reaching under his pillow for his gun.

"What is it?" he asked after a moment.

Sam relaxed and sighed dramatically. "Nothing. I thought I heard the banshee. Sounded like it was trying to sing."

"Eat shit, Sam."

It was Sam's turn to laugh.

Hope you enjoyed!