The first thing Dean becomes aware of when he comes to is a tingling numbness in his arms and legs. He lifts his head, which sets off a throbbing ache at the back of his skull, and blinks, trying to bring his surroundings into focus. He's sitting on the cold cement floor of what must be the warehouse. His back is resting uncomfortably against what feels like a metal pole, and his hands are tied behind him. A large industrial light is humming overhead, casting a dim yellowish glow over the spot where Dean is tied, but leaving the rest of the floor in darkness. Dean twists around, ignoring the pain in his head, and spots Sam tied to another metal pole about ten feet to his left. His eyes are open and alert, and Dean sags back against his own pole for a moment, relieved despite their predicament.
All of that relief disappears, however, when he registers someone standing just inside the circle of light, watching them. A slender girl with a blonde pixie cut.
"Christo," he croaks, but she barely winces.
"I've already been through all that with Sammy here," says the demon, and Dean feels a flash of pride. It takes more than a blow to the head and a few ropes to take a Winchester out of the fight. "And before you try playing any games with exorcisms," she continues, pulling a gun from her belt, "let me explain the rules. One of you starts and I shoot the other one."
"You must really like possessing that poor girl, huh, Meg?" says Dean. Perhaps it would have been better for her if she'd died the first time.
The demon flashes black eyes at him. "Well, I needed something nice to wear for our little date," she replies sweetly. "And Sam seemed to like this meat suit before."
She pirouettes on the spot like a model showing off her outfit. The gun in her hand catches the light, and a wave of sickness that has nothing to do with his head injury washes over Dean as he gets a better look at it. The Colt. From what he can tell, his other revolver and both of his knives are also missing—not that it seems likely he'll be able to slip free of his bonds in order to use them. Even his lockpicks seem to have been taken. The ropes are cruelly tight, and prickly bolts of pins and needles are now shooting up and down his arms.
"What do you want?" comes Sam's voice harshly from Dean's left. Dean turns to look at him; he's sitting rigidly against his pole, his eyes fixed on Meg.
"To talk to you," says Meg, taking a few steps to stand directly in front of him. "Just to talk, Sam."
"Well, I don't want to talk to you."
Meg smiles in a way that makes Dean's skin crawl. "But don't you want to know why we've been looking for you? Don't you want to know about our big plan?"
Sam says nothing, but Dean can see the spark of curiosity in his eyes as he stares back at her.
"It's something to do with my powers, right?" he asks finally.
"That's right," says Meg. "You've got a lot of potential, Sam. We'd just like to help you develop it."
Dean doesn't like the sound of this one bit, so he's relieved when Sam replies, "No, thanks." Still, Dean thinks he could have said it with a lot more conviction.
"So—what?" says Meg. "You're just going to waste it? Just gonna hop back into that dumpy old car and follow your brother around like a good little puppy?"
Pain crackles up Dean's arms as his fists clench. He glances desperately at Sam, craning his neck, but Sam is still focused on Meg, with that same rapt, fascinated expression he had back in Burkitsville. Dean likes it even less this time.
"I thought that's why you went to Stanford, because you knew you were meant for better than that."
"And joining forces with you would be better?" asks Sam. Dean is somewhat reassured to hear the revulsion plain in his voice. He relaxes slightly against the pole.
Next second, he tenses up again. It could be his eyes playing tricks on him—he did take quite a blow to the head, after all, if the throbbing in his skull is anything to go by—but he's pretty sure he just saw something moving, flitting around just outside the circle of light from the overhead lamp.
"We can show you how to harness those powers of yours, Sam," Meg is saying. "I know you have visions and special sight, but you could do much more if you let us teach you. You could take over the world."
"I think I'll pass," says Sam.
"Come on, Sammy. Are you going to let your mother's death be in vain? She sold herself so that you would live to fulfill this destiny." Meg gestures expansively, throwing her arms wide, smiling her terrible smile. "This is what you were born for."
"I should never have been born at all," says Sam. For the first time his voice wavers, and Dean's heart twists in his chest.
"Aw, poor little Sammy," says Meg, her voice sickly sweet, her bottom lip sticking out in a grotesque pout. "Sounds like you could use some encouragement."
Dean forces himself to keep his expression blank as she stows the Colt in her belt, pulls one of his own knives from her boot, and twirls it in her fingers, her black eyes fixed meaningfully on him. His head is throbbing so hard he thinks he might pass out again—which would be good for undergoing torture, but not so good for facing whatever is lurking in the shadows nearby—for Dean sees the flicker of movement again just as Meg steps toward him.
"You bitch," Sam gasps, as she takes another slow step in Dean's direction, still twirling the knife, her smile back in place.
"Sticks and stones, Sammy," says Meg, taking another step. "Are you going to play nice or not?"
"If you touch him—!"
"You gonna stop me?" taunts Meg, now standing directly in front of Dean. "Well, I suppose you could if you knew how to use your powers."
Dean stares up at her coolly, fighting to keep his expression blank as Sam lets out a wordless howl that makes his gut clench. Meg raises the knife. Dean's instinct is to close his eyes, but he keeps them fixed on the knife's point, not wanting to look weak—for Meg or for Sam he isn't sure.
"Last chance," says Meg, over Sam's yells. "Stop me now, Sam. Use your powers."
"Don't do it, Sam!" shouts Dean. He doesn't really know why he says it, since he can't see any other way out of the situation; he only knows he's suddenly much more afraid of what Meg might want from Sam than he is of the knife.
"Shut up," Meg growls at him, her voice deepening alarmingly, no longer remotely sweet. Her fingers tighten on the handle of the knife. Before she can bring it down, however, the thing that's been lurking out of sight the whole time steps into the circle of light.
Sam's cries abruptly cease. Dean stares, almost forgetting the knife poised above him. The thing is humanoid, but freakishly tall and thin, almost emaciated. Dull, brownish skin is stretched tightly over its spindly limbs. Each of its fingers ends in a curved nail so long and yellow it might be better described as a talon. Dean has never encountered such a creature before, but he's seen drawings in John's journal. It's a wendigo.
"What do you want?" Meg snaps at it.
"Hungry," it moans.
"You've had your meat," says Meg dismissively.
The wendigo edges forward, its tongue curling around sharp teeth to lick its lips. "You promised….for the phone calls…"
Were Dean's hands free, he would bury his face in them. The whole case was a setup, a wendigo acting on Meg's orders. And he let Sam walk right into it. No wonder Sam would rather be off on his own—he's not much safer with Dean than without him.
"Shut up," says Meg. "I'm busy." She turns back to Dean, her grip tightening on the knife.
But Dean isn't watching the knife. He's too busy looking over her shoulder at the wendigo, which is suddenly right behind her.
"Hungry," it insists, and takes a great swipe at her with its talons.
Meg shrieks, dropping the knife in order to press her hand to the long, deep gashes striping her side. Blood spurts between her fingers. Dean feels a few warm droplets pelt his face. Turning to face the wendigo, Meg fumbles at her belt for the Colt, but the wendigo, roaring, takes another great swipe with its talons and knocks it out of her hand. It skitters over the floor and fetches up against Dean's feet. Gasping and bleeding, Meg seems to decide running is her only option, but she slips in a puddle of blood and goes crashing to the floor. Immediately, the wendigo is upon her, and, a moment later, Dean sees a cloud of black smoke erupt from her mouth, boil up to the ceiling, and vanish.
Watching the wendigo tear into her meat suit, he hopes the girl called Meg Masters was already dead before the demon left her.
"Dean, you okay?" calls Sam.
"Fine," says Dean. He doesn't take his eyes from the wendigo, though he would very much like to. It's stripping the flesh from her bones faster than a school of piranhas. They have minutes, at most, before it finishes with her and comes after him and Sam. "Gotta get out of here, though. How are your ropes?"
"They're too tight. I can't move!" Sam, so calm and controlled while talking to Meg, sounds close to panic now.
"Okay," says Dean, trying to sound reassuring. "It's okay. We'll think of something."
But even as he says it, a horrible crunching and slurping noise tells him that the wendigo is sucking the marrow from Meg's bones. Still gnawing on what looks like a femur, it turns slowly on the spot until it's facing Dean.
"Dean…." says Sam, his voice high-pitched like a little boy's.
"I see it, Sam," he says. What he can't see is something to do about it. If only he could get a hand free, then he could reach the Colt and shoot this bastard. He struggles against his bonds, ignoring the pain and numbness in his arms, but he's practically immobile.
The wendigo creeps forward, a sickly smile on its red-smeared lips.
"DEAN!" Sam bellows. "NO!"
Dean opens his mouth, but the only thing he can think of to say is that this is going to happen whether Sam gives his permission or not. The wendigo will make quick work of him, trussed up as he is like a chicken for roasting. And then it will move on to Sam, and Dean will be beyond even trying to prevent it.
It's that thought that hurts him the most.
It's hardly crossed his mind, however, before Sam lets out another wordless yell, and Dean feels a lurch and a pull somewhere behind him. A great weight tugs him to the side and, with a clang of metal, he crashes to the ground, groaning at the pressure on his aching shoulders. It takes him a second to realize what happened. The pole he was tied to has been ripped from its moorings.
The wendigo, apparently as surprised as Dean is, hesitates.
Dean springs into action. Willing his numb legs to move, he scoots along the floor until he can slip his ropes off the end of the pole. There's an unpleasant feeling of blood rushing back to his hands as he frees them, but they still seem to be working properly, so he loses no time in seizing the Colt and firing a bullet directly into the wendigo's brain.
There's a spectacular crackle of white light. Then the monster falls backwards onto the floor, dead.
Sam is hanging limply in his bonds, his head drooping onto his chest, a trickle of blood dribbling from his nose onto his shirt. A fresh jolt of adrenaline sends Dean rushing over to him, but he seems fine, if a bit dazed.
"What the hell was that?" Dean demands, untying Sam's ropes and yanking him to his feet. "More of those freaky mind powers?"
Sam grimaces, rotating his shoulders and flexing his muscles gingerly. "Yeah, I guess." His nose is bleeding.
"So, what, are you Carrie now, or something?"
"I don't know," says Sam, now massaging his temples with his eyes closed. "Never done that before. And I don't ever want to do it again. My head is killing me."
Dean clenches his teeth against a sudden swell of anger. He wouldn't have had to do it at all if he'd just listened to Dean in the first place. Not trusting himself to say anything, Dean leaves Sam cradling his head in his hands and approaches the remains of Meg Masters.
"Ugh," he mutters under his breath, pressing a hand to his mouth as though to force back the bile rising in his throat. It isn't a pretty sight. The wendigo devoured every bit of soft flesh it could find, even the cartilage of the ribs and between the joints. The bloodstained bones are scattered around the floor, many of them splintered and covered in teeth marks.
At least Meg Masters will never have to endure demonic possession again.
Grimacing, Dean picks through the pile of bones and shreds of bloodied clothing until he finds his two knives, wiping them clean on the leg of his jeans. Neither his spare revolver nor any of Sam's weapons are there, however, which makes him wonder if Meg could have given them to an accomplice.
Just as this thought occurs, a strange howl echoes through the warehouse. It doesn't sound close by, but to Dean's experienced ears it definitely sounds like it could be something supernatural. Alarmed at the possibility, Dean stuffs the knives back into his boots and hurries over to Sam, who is pinching his nose to stop its bleeding.
"C'mon, we need to get out of here."
Dean isn't sure how they manage to get out of the warehouse, as it's pitch black outside the circle of light they'd been in, and their flashlights have disappeared along with Sam's weapons. But somehow they stumble into a door and onto the cracked pavement outside, where the Impala is waiting for them like an old, faithful dog. Dean has rarely been more relieved to see her.
Sam leans back in his seat when he gets in, and puts his hands over his face, clearly still suffering from his psychic-induced headache. It makes Dean's guts twist with anger, and this time, he speaks up.
"See?" he asks, ignoring Sam's wince at his harsh voice. "This is what happens when I let you go off on your own."
"I don't need you to babysit me, Dean," says Sam. His words are muffled under his hands, but his exasperation comes through loud and clear.
"Yeah, sure you don't." Dean shakes his head, his jaw clenched, as he starts the car and pulls away from the warehouse. "You're the one with all the psychic crap, and you still can't even tell when something's wrong."
"You know what? You're right," says Sam, dropping his hands into his lap so that Dean can see his glare. "I definitely should have known it wasn't you when I got that phone call. When have you ever actually picked up the phone and called me when it was important?"
"I'm just sayin', you need to be more careful. If I have to come save your ass from that demon bitch one more time—"
"Excuse me? As I recall, it was me saving your ass back there."
"Yeah, and you played right into Meg's hands to do it!" says Dean loudly. He thumps the steering wheel, not knowing how else to express his feelings. "Just like you did in Burkitsville!"
"So, what, I was supposed to let her torture you?" says Sam, his voice rising to match Dean's. "I was supposed to let the wendigo eat you?"
Dean can't think of a response to that, so he keeps his eyes on the road. After a moment, Sam continues, "At least we know why Azazel is looking for me now."
"Yeah, like it wasn't obvious he wanted a piece of those freaky powers," Dean mutters.
Sam sighs and rubs at his forehead, half turning in his seat so that he's facing towards the window, away from Dean. He doesn't reply.
The rest of the drive is silent until Dean pulls up outside the abandoned house they're staying in. He cuts the Impala's engine, but doesn't get out; instead, he turns to look at Sam, who is completely immobile in the passenger seat, still turned resolutely toward the window. The silence is even more pronounced without the noise of the car.
"What does it matter why Azazel's looking for you, anyway?" Dean asks, as though there had been no break in their conversation. It comes out more pleading than he'd intended. "This whole thing was supposed to be just finding him, sending him back where he came from, and avenging Mom, not having tea and crumpets with the bastard."
Sam doesn't turn back to face him, but he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Well, like it or not, Dean, it's bigger than that now. Azazel's got to be planning something—how about you focus on that, instead of hovering over me?"
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Dean shakes his head, uncomprehending. What did Sam mean by giving him the amulet, if not that he wanted Dean there to look out for him?
"Like I said, I don't need you to babysit."
It's a moment before Dean can speak again. When he does find his voice, it comes out flat and strange-sounding. "Well if that's how you feel about it, maybe you should just go."
Sam's voice is as flat as his own. "Maybe I should."
They stare at each other for a second. Dean has no idea what Sam sees in his face; he's not sure there's an expression that could communicate what he is feeling at the moment. For his part, Sam just looks resigned. Then he throws open the passenger side door, gets out stiffly, and disappears into the house. Dean stays sitting in the driver's seat, staring at the stretch of overgrown sidewalk illuminated in the Impala's headlights, feeling just as numb as he did upon waking up tied to a pole inside the warehouse.
Sam soon reappears, carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder, crossing through the beam of the headlights.
"Hey, Sam?" says Dean, getting quickly out of the car.
At the edge of the shadows, Sam turns back. Dean is certain it's just a trick of the light that makes his expression look suddenly hopeful.
"Take this," he says, holding out the Colt to Sam. After a moment's hesitation, Sam steps over to him and reaches out to grasp the Colt's handle. But Dean holds tight to the barrel, waiting for Sam's eyes to flick up to his. "Take care of yourself." It's surprisingly hard to say it, hard to acknowledge that he won't be doing that job anymore.
Sam nods. "You too."
And with that he strides away, leaving Dean with only the car for company.