Hanging by a thread as I play dead
Hanging by a thread, and my mind is code red
Cut and run, try to hide
Get away, shut my eyes just to hide from the fate
Cut and run, try to hide
Get away, cover up, get shelter from the hate
Demonized, simplified, tranquilized, prophesized
Just to hide from life
Night and day, led astray, in decay, come what may
Not to face that fight
…
Never can I stop 'cause they hunt me
Never can I stop 'cause the beast is hungry
Like a wolf on the hunt, stalking prey, closing in
No, it won't let me be
Like a wolf on the hunt, stalks a prey
Any cost, fulfill a destiny
…
Cut and run, hide away from fate, cover up
Try to hide the hate, like a wolf
It will never be closing, wish away, shut my eyes
Wish it away
Seething, fast breathing, nightmares grow
On I run, but still my shadows follow
Facing my demons, now I know
If I run, still my shadows follow
I say no, still my shadows follow
Metallica — Shadows Follow
We didn't get interrupted the following morning for the first time in a while. It was nice to wake up on our own time and lay there as long as we wanted. Although our stay didn't last a week, as Dean had suggested, it did go on for a few blissful days.
The other night, while getting a bite to eat, Sam discovered two strange deaths in Chicago, Illinois. One having taken place last month and the other just a week ago. Our victims appeared to have nothing in common except how they went out. Both returned to their homes after a seemingly ordinary day at work, and both were found dead. The most recent target even had her security alarm set, prompting Sam to get the bright idea of having us pose as PF Alarm System employees to gain access to her apartment.
If I thought the State Police uniforms were crazy—this grey jumpsuit that Sam went so far as to have patches with our names sewn on was certifiably insane. But it looked believable; I'd give him that.
"Alright, this is the place," Sam announced as we pulled up in front of a corner building. It looked just the same as all the others, save for being made with a slightly darker color brick. At the trunk of the Impala, Dean and I collected some items we'd need into a toolbox to appear more official.
"You know, I've gotta say," Dean began as we started for the building, "we did just fine without these stupid costumes. I feel like a high school drama dork. What was that play you did?" he asked Sam with a laugh. "What was it—Our Town?"
"Oh, yeah, I loved that!" I smiled brightly at the memory of a much shorter, timid Sam stumbling on stage in his little old Western costume. Even though he towered over me now, his shoulders still curled in the same nervous way.
"You were good," Dean encouraged. "It was cute."
"Look, you wanna pull this off or not?" Sam asked, changing the subject.
"All we're saying is, the outfits are kinda weird," I said.
"And they cost hard-earned money," Dean added.
"Whose?" Sam challenged.
"Ours. You think credit card fraud is easy?"
Right where she said she'd be, the landlord stood in the apartment building lobby waiting for us. We finally reached Meredith Jane Allen's tidy apartment on a quiet elevator ride four floors up. Its walls were grey and white. Decorative squares hung from strings dividing the foyer and living room in the same fashion as sixties beaded curtains.
"Thanks for letting us look around," Sam told the landlord.
"Well, the police said they were done with the place," she replied, taking us deeper into the apartment. Everything appeared normal until my eyes pinged to the deep red puddle of blood on the hardwood and blotches scattered across her white living room carpet like an inkblot test. "You guys said you were with the alarm company?" she double-checked.
"That's right," Dean said.
"Well, no offense, but your alarm's about as useful as boobs on a man," she commented dryly, hands on her hips.
"Well, that's why we're here. To see what went wrong and stop it from happening again."
"And you were the one who found her?" I asked while the boys went to survey the room. "Right after it happened?"
"No, a few days later," she explained. "Meredith's work called—she hadn't shown up. I knocked on the door. That's when I noticed the smell."
"Any windows open?" Dean wondered, pushing aside a creme-colored curtain to peer out the window. "Any sign of a break-in?"
"No, windows were locked, and the front door was bolted. Chain was on the door. We had to cut it just to get in."
"And the alarm was still on?"
"Like I said, bang-up job your company's doing."
"You see any overturned furniture, broken glass, signs of struggle?"
"Everything was in perfect condition—" she looked down to the carpet, "Except Meredith."
"And what condition was Meredith in?" Sam asked from his spot by the couch.
"Meredith was all over in pieces. The guy who killed her must have been some kind of a whackjob. But I tell you, if I didn't know any better, I'd have said a wild animal did it," the landlord said, voice cracking. The boys exchanged a look from across the room, one that said we needed to dig deeper in a way that couldn't be done with her present.
"Do you mind if we have some time in here?" I asked. "You know, just to give the place a good look."
"Go right ahead. Knock yourself out," she said, leaving us to our own devices.
Dean pulled an EMF meter from his toolbox and flicked it on. "So, a killer walks in and out of the apartment—no weapons, no prints, nothing."
"I'm telling you, the minute I found that article, I knew it was our kind of gig," Sam defended what we had previously thought to be an off-the-wall choice.
"I think I agree with you."
"How did that talk with the cops go?" I asked Dean. This morning, while Sam and I tacked down some extra information on the first victim, Dean ventured to the local police department in search of details about Meredith.
"Oh, yeah." A smirk played on Dean's lips. "I spoke to Amy—a charming, perky officer of the law. She told me a lot. She's a Sagittarius." His eyes darted to me, assessing whether or not his ribbing had any effect. "She loves tequila—"
The hardwood floors clicked below my boots. "Did you tell her you were single?" I asked.
Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "No?" he trailed up.
"You're about to be," I grumbled, grabbing the EMF meter on my way past. Dean settled into a satisfied grin, glad to have gotten under my skin. "Did you find out anything useful?"
"Nothing we don't already know," he said. "Except for one thing they're keeping out of the papers. Meredith's heart was missing."
"Wait," I stopped short, halfway across the room from him by now, "her heart?"
"Yup. Her heart."
"So, what do you think did that to her?" Sam asked.
"Well, the landlady said it looked like an animal attack. Maybe it was a werewolf?"
"Great," I huffed and let my arms drop to the side, stretching the scars drawn across my left shoulder, serving as a not-so-gentle reminder of why I detested that particular creature.
"No, it can't be," Sam said, "the lunar cycle's not right. Plus, if it was a creature, it would've left some kind of trace. It's probably a spirit."
"A ghost that travels and attacks random people?" I asked.
"Wouldn't be the first time. There's lore on spirits traveling from place to place to exact revenge."
"We got any masking tape?" Dean asked. It wasn't until then that I noticed him staring at the bloodstains on the carpet.
"I think so." I opened our toolbox, finding a roll tucked in the corner beneath a few rags. I handed it to him. "What's this for?"
"I wanna see something," he said, kneeling on the carpet. In just a few minutes, Dean had mapped out an off-kilter Z-like shape with a circle in the middle by connecting the larger blood splatter to its smaller counterparts.
"Ever see that symbol before?" Sam wondered, scrutinizing it with folded arms. I bet it got on his nerves that he didn't immediately recognize what it was.
"Never," Dean replied, pushing to stand beside us. He looked to me for an answer, and I shook my head.
"No clue," I said.
Half a step inside the bustling bar where Meredith worked, it was clear this place wasn't a little hole in the wall as it was described to us. It was more of a tourist destination, packed with people excitedly speaking over each other about their vacation activities. Getting info out of the employees could go one of two ways: either they worked here simply to get by and didn't give two shits about each other, or they were a tight-knit group that protected their own from prying travelers.
Since we walked in, the brunette bartender started giving Dean googly eyes and never stopped. It was apparent who, out of all of us, could get what we needed from her. I told him to go but folded my arms to let him know I didn't like it. I figured there was no way the bartender could push her breasts together any further, but when Dean arrived, she proved me wrong. I shouldn't chastise her, though; I knew that trick too well and had used it to get my way plenty of times.
Rather than focus on every little detail of their interaction, I opted to leaf through the journal and sip the beer I ordered from one of the servers. Not once in all of John's endless accounts of supernatural creatures and the symbols that kept them at bay—or brought them to you—did he mention the one in that apartment.
Dean's chair scraping across the floor brought me back to the rambunctious room around me. "Well, I talked to the bartender," he announced as he sat.
"What'd you get?" I asked. Dean slid a napkin over to me with a poorly written phone number on it. A rough scoff escaped my lips. "Are you joking?"
"You mind doing a little bit of thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?" Sam requested.
"Hey, I didn't ask for it; she gave it to me!" Dean asserted. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Not accept, for one," I huffed, folding my arms atop the table.
Dean's grin couldn't get any wider. "God, you're sexy when you're jealous," he said, balling up and tossing the phone number napkin aside. It started to unravel and tipped onto the floor where it belonged.
My spine straightened. "I am not jealous," I deflected.
"Oh, no," he said knowingly, "not at all."
"Can you just tell us what she said?"
"Meredith worked here. She waited tables, and everyone here was her friend. Everybody said she was normal, and she didn't do or say anything weird before she died," he rattled off almost every bit of proof known to man that no one had it out for our victim. "So, what about that symbol? You find guys anything?"
"It's not in the journal." I flipped the book shut. "I don't think John knew about it."
"We just have to dig a little deeper, I guess," Sam said, leaning back in his chair.
"Well, there was a first victim, right?" Dean asked. "Before Meredith?"
"Right. Yeah. His name was Ben Swardstrom." Sam took the article clipping about Ben's death from the back of the journal and placed it face up on the table. "Last month, he was found mutilated in his townhouse. Same deal—the door was locked, the alarm was on."
"Is there any connection between the two of them?"
"Not that I can tell. I mean, not yet, at least. Ben was a banker, and Meredith was a waitress. They never met, never knew anyone in common. They were practically from different worlds."
"So, to recap, the only successful intel we've scored so far is," Dean pointed to the castaway napkin on the ground, "the bartender's phone number."
"Seems like," I said, resting my chin in my hand. "Maybe we–" Without warning, Sam stood and left the table, cutting my voice like a blunt knife. "What the hell?"
"Ah, he's got a weak bladder," Dean dismissed it and brought the journal in front of him to skim the newspaper clippings inside.
Due to him being about a head taller than everybody else, quickly locating Sam in the crowd was easy. A few feet away, he stopped to place his hand on a woman's shoulder. With her back to us, her only defining feature visible to me was her platinum blonde pixie cut. She turned around and flashed a beaming smile.
"He's talking to someone," I said.
"He is?" Dean followed my gaze and smirked when he spotted the blonde. "Well, I'll be dammed. Come on," he tapped my arm and got up.
Stopping him would be my go-to any other day, but something felt… wrong. It wasn't like Sam to waltz to a random girl in a bar and strike up a conversation. He must know her, which meant I needed to find out more.
"Sam, is that you? Oh, my god!" the stranger gushed and pulled Sam in for a hug. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm just in town," Sam said, "visiting friends."
"Where are they?" she asked, looking around.
"Well, they're not here right now," he conveniently left us out of the picture. "But what about you, Meg? I thought you were going to California."
"I did. I came, I saw, I conquered," Meg rattled off. "Oh, and I met what's-his-name, something Michael Murray at a bar."
"Who?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter," she dismissed. "Anyway, the whole scene got old, so I'm living here for a while."
By now, we'd long been standing nearby, close enough for at least one of them to realize. Both ignored us, even after Dean cleared his throat.
"You're from Chicago?" Sam asked.
"No, Massachusetts—Andover," she replied. "Gosh, Sam, what are the odds we'd run into each other?"
Sam's smile was almost just as huge as hers. "Yeah, I know. I thought I'd never see you again," he said. My eyes trickled to Dean, finding him already giving me a look containing the same question I had: how serious was Sam about this girl? Not enough to tell us about her, but enough that he wanted to see her again.
"Well, I'm glad you were wrong," she said. Dean cleared his throat again, with more force this time, and Meg's face twisted. Several shades of red plumed underneath her innocent facade. "Dude, cover your mouth."
It took her outburst for Sam to notice us. "I'm sorry, Meg," he said, apologizing to her for our presence. "This is my brother, Dean, and his girlfriend, Tori."
"This is Dean and Tori?" Meg recalled, eyes sparking with recognition that quickly fizzed into ash.
"Yeah."
"So, you've heard of us?" Dean asked pridefully.
"Oh, yeah. I've heard of you. Nice." Meg's smile snapped down in an instant. It seemed we got tossed into another word, the way she flipped so fast. "The way you treat your brother like luggage."
Luggage? Where the hell did that idea come from? No part of me wanted to accept it, but the fact Sam didn't butt in with anything to say on the matter, paired with the very corners of his lips still retaining their smile pointed like an arrow at him being the reason she thought that way.
Dean turned his head like he had trouble hearing her. "Sorry?"
"Why don't you let him do what he wants to do? Stop dragging him over God's green earth," Meg snapped. Before he could respond, she directed her anger at me. "And you, just following him around," she threw a hand toward Dean, "doing whatever he says."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I seethed.
She straightened her spine. "A friend of Sam's."
"Well, he's never mentioned you," I dismissed her, and she didn't like it; rage brewed deep within her eyes.
"You have to know everything he does? Everyone he comes in contact with?"
"Hey, it's– it's alright–" Sam tried to be the voice of reason, but he wasn't taking this seriously enough for me. If he had such a problem with us, I don't know what the hell he was sticking around for.
"No, I don't," I answered, ignoring his feeble attempt at stepping in. "But the fact that he thought he'd never see you again tells me you two aren't all that close."
"Okay." Dean's stern voice and hands gripping my arms broke through my anger. I didn't realize how close Meg and I had gotten to each other until he stopped and pulled me back. Dean rubbed my arms. "Let's go get a drink."
"Yeah, sure," I agreed loosely. Meg looked smug—satisfied by getting a rise out of me. It'd be stupid to let things escalate, especially if it were what she wanted, so when Dean drew me away, I went without resistance.
"You really know how to pick 'em, Sammy," Dean commented tightly. His jab didn't seem to go over big with his brother or the blonde, whose sneer somehow dug even deeper.
"What the hell was that?" I asked once we were out of earshot.
"I don't know," Dean said. "I haven't seen you like that in years."
"Not me—her. She was a total bitch. There's no way you're cool with what she said."
"Well, no, but–"
"But you won't hit a girl. I will."
Dean flashed his eyebrows in agreement. "Let's not get in any brawls tonight, okay? She's not worth it," he insisted and called over the bartender to order two shots.
"Since when did you become the rational one?" I jested.
He shrugged a shoulder. "Always been."
"Yeah, right," I snorted and rested on the bar, taking the majority of the weight off my feet to release pressure in my heels. The burn from the shots did nothing to subdue my irritation; it only magnified it. Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty—I should've seen that one coming a mile away. It took another round of shots before Sam finally returned to us, his skin flushed pink and eyes dewy with suspicion. Dean didn't say a word to him, paid for the drinks, and we left. Thankfully, there was no Meg in sight as we strolled from the bar. It was almost as if she had vanished.
"Meg—she wants to meet up while we're here," Sam said out of the blue, keeping up with us despite our quick pace to the Impala.
"Who the hell is she, anyway?" Dean finally questioned, now that he'd taken a few breaths of fresh hair to clear his head.
"I don't really know; I only met her once."
"Well, you seemed pretty damn comfortable about the whole thing," I commented.
Sam's head jutted forward. "What does that mean?"
"Everything she was saying to us? You just stood there; you didn't stick up for us or anything."
"No, it's not like that–"
"It's not?" Dean interjected before his brother could continue that weak excuse. "I treat you like luggage?Tori just follows me around and she's always in your business?" he loosely quoted Meg. "Were you bitchin' about us to some chick?"
"Look," Sam sighed, "I'm sorry, guys. It was after we had that huge fight when I was at that bus stop in Indiana. But that's not important, just listen—"
"Well, is there any truth to what she's saying?" Dean asked, doing anything but listening. In my book, he had every right to argue this topic. "I mean, are we keeping you against your will, Sam?"
"No, of course not! I should've stopped her, alright? Now, would you listen?"
Although we were feet from the car, Dean skidded short and faced him. "What?"
"I think there's something strange going on here," Sam insisted, so I slowed to a stop beside them.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"Strange, like how?" I asked.
"I mean, like our kind of strange," Sam said, "like, maybe even a lead."
I folded my arms. "A lead for this job or something else?"
"I don't know, both? I mean, I met Meg weeks ago, literally on the side of the road. And now, I run into her in some random Chicago bar? I mean, the same bar where a waitress was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don't think that's a little weird?"
"I don't know, random coincidence." Dean shrugged, somehow finding logic in this situation. "It happens."
"It happens, but not to us."
"You might be onto something," I told Sam. "She's off. By a lot."
"Yeah, there's something about this girl that I can't quite put my finger on."
"Well, I bet you'd like to," Dean smirked, "I mean, maybe she's not a suspect; maybe you've got a thing for her? Thinking a little too much with your upstairs brain, huh?"
Sam scoffed out a chuckle and continued. "Do me a favor?" he asked. "Check and see if there's really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts, and see if you can't dig anything up on that symbol on Meredith's floor."
"And what are you gonna do?" I challenged, still sour from everything that occurred in that bar.
"I'm gonna watch Meg."
"Yeah," Dean barked a suggestive laugh, "you are."
"I just wanna see what's what," Sam insisted innocently. "Better safe than sorry."
"Alright, you little pervert."
"Dude."
"I'm going, I'm going," Dean mumbled, walking down the street a few feet before stopping to wait for me.
"Just be careful, alright?" I requested.
"I know," Sam said. "I will."
After a call to one of John's contacts, Claleb, and a trip to the library later, we finally tracked down the source of that symbol. It was old. Like, really, really old. Not to mention frightening—only used by the shadiest people with the worst intentions. While Dean leafed through a few of the books Caleb recommended, the laptop and table turned into my station, determined to find a chink in the seemingly impenetrably perfect armor Meg Masters wore. Over and over, all I did was come up with dead ends. I couldn't find a damn bad thing about her. Well, nothing there was solid proof of, anyway. I had plenty of bad things to say.
With a heavy sigh, Dean shut and tossed the book aside before standing behind my chair. "You know." He bent down behind me, pulling my hair over my shoulder to kiss my neck. "If Sam went after that Meg girl, I'm sure he's not coming back tonight."
I laughed humorlessly. "Don't say that."
"What? It works out for everybody," his hands slid up my arms to gently massage my shoulders, "Sam won't be so… Sam when he gets back, and we get some more alone time."
"You see that I'm busy, don't you?" I gestured lazily to the computer. I wasn't about to protest where this was heading, but he still had to work for it—at least a little bit.
"Mhm," Dean hummed, reaching to shut the laptop's lid.
"Hey–!" My voice was cut off by Dean angling my chin to lock our lips. Shifting in the chair, I wove my knees between his legs and slid my hands to his belt. Dean watched with bated breath as my fingers undid the buckle, slow enough to drive him crazy. However, his phone rang before the leather could slip from his belt loops. I froze and looked up at him expectantly.
"Ignore it," he rattled quickly, "it's fine."
"No!" I snagged the cell from his back pocket. Sam's name flashed across the screen. "It could be important."
Dean fixed his belt and heavily plopped down on the chair beside mine, elbows resting on his knees. "Let me guess, you're lurking outside that poor girl's apartment, aren't you?" he asked his brother as soon as I hit accept and put the call on speaker.
"No," Sam denied, waiting a few moments before admitting, "Yes," in a much smaller voice.
"You've got a funny way of showing your affection."
"Did you find anything on her or what?" Sam asked impatiently.
"Nothing," I answered. "Well, nothing not real, anyway. I found a Meg Masters in the Andorver phonebook, and I even got her high school photo. The girl checks out."
"What about the symbol? Any luck?"
"Yeah, actually, we did have some luck with that," Dean said. "Turns out it's Zoroastrian. Very, very old school, like two thousand years before Christ. It's a sigil for a Daeva."
"What's a Daeva?"
"Well, it translates to demon of darkness. Zoroastrian demons, and they're savage, animalistic, you know, nasty attitudes—kind of like demonic pit bulls."
"Wow," Sam breathed, hardly trying to hide his surprise. "How'd you figure that out?"
"Give me some credit, man. You don't have a corner on paper chasing around here."
"Oh, yeah? Name the last book you read."
Dean flashed his eyebrows. "We called Dad's friend, Caleb," he admitted, unbothered. "He told us, alright?"
Sam laughed sarcastically, "Yeah, I thought so."
"Well, excuse us. We haven't had the privilege of hanging out in front of an apartment all night long," I jabbed. "We've been busy; we needed a little help."
"Alright," Sam conceded. "So, what's the deal with the Daevas?"
"They have to be summoned—conjured," Dean explained.
"So, someone's controlling it?"
"Yeah, that's what I'm saying. And, from what I gather, it's pretty risky business, too. These suckers tend to bite the hand that feeds them. And the arms and torsos, and the–"
"What a lovely picture," I interjected to stop his verbal illustration. Dean smiled. "Bottom line," I told Sam, "they're scary as hell."
"So, what do they look like?" Sam asked.
"Well, nobody knows, but nobody's seen 'em for a couple of millennia," Dean said. "I mean, summoning a demon that ancient? Someone really knows their stuff. I think we've got a major player in town. Now, why don't you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?
Sam scoffed, "Bite me."
"No, bite her. Don't leave teeth marks, though–" Dean said as the line went static. "Sam?"
I skated his phone across the table. "Would you stop that?"
"Stop what?" Dean caught the cell before it slid off the surface. "The kid's gotta loosen up sometime."
"But not with Meg."
Dean's brows pulled together; I was a pane of glass he saw straight through. "What beef do you have with her anyway? Because if it's about what she said at the bar, Tor, it doesn't matter."
"No, it's not that that. There's just… something. I don't know what or why," I said, frustrated. Not at him. At myself, at Meg. This whole unexplainable, unproven feeling. "You gotta trust me on this, Dean."
"Hey, I do," he squeezed my fingers, "I trust you. You say something's up with Meg, then fine, something's up with her."
"Yeah, but what? According to that," I nodded to the shut laptop, "she's a perfectly normal person."
"On paper."
"What do you mean?"
"Lots of people have ways to fly under the radar. Look at us."
"We must've missed something."
Dean tapped his fingers on the top of my hand in thought. "Hold on," he said, taking his phone and dialing a number.
"Who are you calling?"
"Amy."
"Amy?" I repeated sharply. "That cop?"
"Yeah, wait," he said, shifting away from me in his seat. "Hey!" Dean smiled brightly, turning on the charm. Her voice, while muffled through the speaker, was high-pitched and excited to hear from him. "Yeah, no, I'm great. Listen, I have another favor to ask you."
With each minute that ticked by, my worry ratcheted up. The information Dean acquired from Amy didn't help—it made my nerves stand on end. Being his reassuring self, Dean told me that Sam was okay, that he could handle himself, and that he'd be back here before we knew it. That we'd figure all this out, and we'd do it together. All of that was to comfort me while his own worry grew. Sometimes, I wished we could hide things from each other a bit better; soothing words would have a more helpful payoff if we were unable to tell what was firing underneath.
Suddenly, Sam flew through the door, breathless and pale. "I gotta talk to you guys," he announced. "It's Meg. She's summoning the Daeva."
"She is?" I asked, sitting ramrod straight. Of all my suspicions to come true, it just had to be one. "How did you find that out?"
"I saw her."
"You saw her? So, you what–"
"I followed her," Sam held up his hands, palms out like a shield, "but before you freak, she had no idea I was there."
"Oh, sure," I rolled my eyes. "She's only summoning one of the purest forms of evil. I'm sure she had no clue you were tailing her."
"Just listen, okay? She was using a black altar to control the thing."
"So, Sammy's got a thing for the bad girl," Dean said, trying to cover his spiked nerves with a blanket of humor.
"She was talking into this bowl," Sam continued, ignoring him. "You know, the way witches used to scry into crystal balls or animal entrails. She was communicating with someone."
"With who?" Dean asked. "With the Daeva?"
"No, you said those things were savages. This was someone different, someone who's giving her orders. Someone who's coming to that warehouse."
"You know, I pulled a favor with that cop over at the police department," Dean said, opening the manilla folder Amy dropped over just a half hour ago. "The complete records of the two victims—we missed something the first time. The first victim, the old man, he spent his whole life in Chicago—but he wasn't born here. Look where he was born." Dean pointed to the birthplace on the man's birth certificate.
"Lawrence, Kansas," Sam read, as awestruck as I'd been the first time.
"Yup. Meredith, the second victim—turns out she was adopted. And guess where she's from?"
"Holy shit." Sam collapsed on one of the chairs. "I mean, it is where the demon killed Mom. That's where everything started. So, you think Meg's tied up with the demon?"
"It's looking like a pretty good possibility," I said.
"But I don't understand. What's the significance of Lawrence? And how do these Daeva things fit in?"
"Beats me." Dean shrugged. "But I say we trash that black altar, grab Meg, and have ourselves a friendly little interrogation."
A sickening feeling prickled across my skin at the thought. "No way, Dean," I said. "If she gets the slightest idea about what we're gonna do, we're done for. We have to be smart about it; wait it out and see who she called to meet."
"Yeah, you're right." Dean nodded in agreement. "But I'll tell you one thing: I don't think we should do this alone."
"I'm gonna get some stuff from the car," Sam said, picking up an empty bag on his way out.
Dean ran his fingers across the number pad before dialing John's number. It rang and rang; the only thing that picked up was the voicemail.
"Hey, Dad," he said, voice withdrawn—like he knew leaving a message would've been his only option from the start. "We think we've got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom. So, uh—this warehouse, it's fourteen-thirty-five West Erie. If you get this, get to Chicago as soon as you can."
"You think he's gonna show?" Dean asked, tossing the phone aisde. Despite John's callousness or seemingly lack of empathy as of late, there was a time when I thought he would always be there for us. Each time we'd reached out over the last year proved otherwise.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I wish he would."
"Yeah, me too."
"What happened?" Sam grunted, entering the room with three full bags balanced between his shoulders and arms.
"Voicemail," I replied.
"Jesus, what'd you get?" Dean asked, surveying the items after Sam plopped them on the nearest bed.
"I ransacked that trunk," Sam said. "Holy water, every weapon that I could think of, exorcism rituals from about a half dozen religions. I'm not sure what to expect, so I guess we should just expect everything."
"Big night," Dean said, beginning to load a pistol.
"You nervous?" Sam asked, eyes darting between me and his brother.
"No. Why are you?"
"No. No way."
"I am," I said, unable to see the point in sugarcoating any of this mess.
"Yeah, so am I," Sam confessed with a sheepish chuckle. "God, could you imagine if we actually found that damn thing? That demon?"
"Hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves here, okay?" Dean requested.
"I know. I'm just saying, what if we did? What if this whole thing was over tonight?" Sam's eyes glazed over at the prospect. For him, that would be the end. It wasn't so easy for the rest of us. "Man, I'd sleep for a month. Go back to school—be a person again."
I could practically feel Dean's heart drop. "You wanna go back to school?" he asked.
"Yeah, once we're done hunting the thing."
To look busy, I sorted through the contents of one of the duffle bags while my mind ran. Having Sam back, despite the tragedy that forced him into it, was nice. It felt like we were whole again. If getting that ripped away was hard for me, I couldn't imagine how Dean felt.
"Why, is there something wrong with that?" Sam asked, picking up on the energy shift in the room.
"No, no," Dean insisted, "it's great. Good for you."
"I mean, what are you guys gonna do when it's all over?" Sam wondered excitedly, as though his brother and I had some grand plan for our future that didn't involve an endless stream of exactly what we were doing now—preparing for a hunt.
Dean fiddled with the gun in his hand. His eyes held an untraceable look—a longing for something unspoken. "It's never gonna be over," he said. "There's gonna be others. There's always gonna be something to hunt."
"But there's got to be something that you guys want for yourselves," Sam pushed. "You know, maybe start a family or something."
"Are you serious?" Dean snapped, eyes narrowing like razors. "You just– you know what, Sam?" he scoffed, walking to the dresser to unpack it, "forget it."
"Dude, what's your problem?" Sam asked him and looked at me in question like I'd be able to say what was going on with his brother. Sam hit a nerve, but what that nerve entailed was difficult to pin down. Dean didn't want him to go, and the idea of doing something else besides hunting was hard to fathom. The idea of longing for it was terrifying. We'd just end up disappointed in the end.
"Maybe I just don't want you to leave the second this thing's over, Sam," Dean said. "Why do you think I drag you everywhere? I mean, why do you think we came and got you at Stanford in the first place?"
"'Cause Dad was in trouble. 'Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom."
"Yes, that. But it's more than that, man. You, me, Tor, and Dad—I mean, I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again," Dean's voice cracked and hit my heart like a hammer. Knowing his wants was one thing, but hearing him say it aloud was another.
"Dean, we are a family," Sam said, heartfelt. "I'd do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before."
"Could be."
"I don't want them to be," Sam pressed, misty-eyed. "I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way."
Of course, him going off and living the normal, happy life of his dreams was something I wanted. But knowing us, it wouldn't take long before we drifted apart again. Eventually, the calls would stop. The messages wouldn't come. Our lives would separate again soon enough.
"And going your own way means what?" I questioned, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You go off, and we never hear from you again? We don't get a call, a text—nothing?"
"No!" Sam insisted. "No, that's what I want to be different. Just because I'm not gonna hunt doesn't mean we can't speak."
"You know what? We gotta stay focused," Dean said, slinging one of the bags over his shoulder. "Let's just go."
The warehouse Sam followed Meg to was an old, rundown building on the city's south end. It didn't look occupied by much other than stray cats, rats, and, apparently, demonic attack dogs. As soon as we stepped into the place, my hair stood on end, like someone was lurking behind me, breathing down my neck. The only way to access the floor where Meg built her altar was to scale an empty elevator shaft. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, there was always a curveball.
We were a collective panting puddle of sweat when we reached our destination. My hands slipped from the elevator gate. I bore down, wedging the toe of my boot into a deep crack in the brick. Meg stood at the altar with her back to us, chanting in a language unfamiliar to me. We carefully and quietly climbed up through the gap in the iron gate and scurried behind stacks of crates and clutter at the back of the room with guns drawn.
"Guys," Meg called out suddenly. "Hiding's a little bit childish, don't you think?"
"Well, that didn't work out like I planned," Dean whispered.
Meg turned to survey the room. "Why don't you come out?" she asked. Caught red-handed, we had no choice but to reveal our location, stepping out into the thin stream of light breaking through a broken window. "Sam," she smiled tersely at his gun, "I have to say, this puts a real crimp in our relationship."
"Yeah," Sam puffed. "tell me about it."
"So, where's your little Daeva friend?" Dean asked.
"Around," Meg shrugged, "you know, that shotgun's not gonna do much good."
"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart. The shotgun's not for the demon."
"So, who is it, Meg?" Sam asked. "Who's coming? Who are you waiting for?"
"You," she said. A hooded, humanoid shadow with long, claw-like fingers appeared on the adjacent wall, soaring out of sight. Deep gashes pierced my arm and propelled me off my feet and into a stack of crates and boxes. One of the corners hit square in the center of my back, knocking the air from my lungs. Unseen hands held me down, digging dagger tips into my skin. Painstakingly slow and helplessly, the Daevas dragged us to a pillar where Meg secured our arms behind our backs with course rope.
"Hey, Sam?" Dean called out. "Don't take this the wrong way, but your girlfriend is a bitch."
"The whole thing was a trap," Sam deduced. "Running into you at the bar, following you here, hearing what you had to say. It was all a set-up, wasn't it? And that the victims were from Lawrence?"
Meg smiled proudly. "It doesn't mean anything. It was just to draw you in, that's all."
"You killed those two people for nothing."
"Baby, I've killed a lot more for a lot less."
"You trapped us. Good for you, it's Miller time." Dean smiled patronizingly. "Why don't you kill us already?"
"Not very quick on the uptake, are we?" Meg asked. "This trap isn't for you."
Realization hit me like a ton of bricks. "John," I said. "The trap is for John."
"Oh, sweetheart, you're dumber than you look," Dean laughed, done with pleasantries. "'Cause even if Dad was in town, which he is not, he wouldn't walk into something like this. He's too good."
"He is pretty good. I'll give you that." Meg said, sauntering over to Dean. She kicked his legs apart and crouched down before him. "But you see, he has one weakness."
"What's that?"
"You." Meg played with Dean's jacket, pushing it open. She trickled her fingers down his chest. "He lets his guard down around his kids, lets his emotions cloud his judgment. I happen to know he is in town. And he'll come and try to save you. Just like he rescued you all those years ago," she said to me.
"How do you know about that?" I asked.
"Honey, I know everything about you. Like, who killed your parents all bloody. And why."
"You fucking bitch–" I spat.
Meg laughed, casually resting her arms on her knees. "It won't matter much longer. When Daddy gets here, the Daevas will kill everybody—nice and slow and messy."
"Well, I've got news for you," Dean started, "it's gonna take a lot more than some shadow to kill him."
"Oh, the Daevas are in the room here. They're invisible. Their shadows are just the only part you can see."
"Why are you doing this, Meg?" Sam asked, catching her attention. "What kind of deal you got worked out here, huh? And with who?"
"I'm doing this for the same reasons you do what you do—loyalty. Love. Like the love you had for Mommy and Jess."
"Go to hell."
"Baby, I'm already there." Meg crawled across my legs to reach Sam. Her lips slipped up his neck. "There's no need to be nasty. I think we both know how you really feel about me." She straddled him. "I saw you watching me—changing in my apartment. Turned you on, didn't it?"
"Oh my god," I mumbled, disgusted.
"Get a room, you two," Dean complained.
"I didn't mind," Meg whispered. "I liked that you were watching me. Come on, Sammy. You and I can still have a little dirty fun."
"You wanna have fun? Go ahead, then," Sam said. "I'm a little tied up right now."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Dean slip out out his switchblade, attempting to keep its clicking to a minimum as he cut through the ropes. Watching Meg slobber all over Sam was out of the question, and keeping an eye on Dean while he was trying to cut free would alert her, so my eyes found sanctuary on my lap until a clink on the concrete floor forced all the attention on Dean. Meg sauntered over to him and ripped the knife from his hand, skidding it to the wall. She got in his face just to laugh and rub in how she outsmarted us—again—before slithering back to Sam.
"Now, were you just trying to distract me while your brother cuts free?" she asked.
"No." Sam struggled beneath her. "Not me."
With one last flick of my knife, the rope digging into my wrist gave way, and I scrambled to my already scuffed knees. Meg let out an inhuman shriek and lunged for me. I kicked, the toe of my boot connecting to her chest, giving me ample space. Through my pounding pulse, I heard Dean yell to me about getting the altar. Unbalanced, with almost all its weight on the back, hardly any effort was needed to tip the table. The bones, the jars, the feathers, the candles, and the black bowl filled with blood spilled to the ground.
Stark against the chipped wall, the shadows appeared and slashed their talons into Meg's leg. She screamed, desperately clawing at the ground as they dragged her to one of the windows and mercilessly tossed her out. I cut Dean's ropes first, then Sam's, and waited for them to accompany me to the window to survey the damage done. Shards of glass lay scattered on the ground below. I half expected Meg to be gone, but she was there—sprawled out on the sidewalk. I figured destroying the altar would break her control of the Daevas, but I had no idea they'd retaliate this way.
"So, I guess the Daevas didn't like being bossed around," Sam said.
"I guess not," Dean replied. He tapped Sam's arm. "Hey?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you wanna get laid, find a girl that's not so buckets-o'-crazy, huh?" Dean smiled tensely and turned for our exit: descending back down that stupid elevator shaft. My arms burned at the idea of it. By the time we finished, and reached the motel, all I thought about was a shower to clean all the sticky, half-dried blood and demonic grime from my skin, and curling up in bed. It was the only thing keeping my tired legs moving down the hall toward our room.
At the door, Dean reached into his pocket for the keys. "Why didn't you just leave that stuff in the car?" he asked, nodding to the bag slung over Sam's shoulder.
"I said it before, and I'll say it again—better safe than sorry," Sam said. It's better to have that extra layer of protection, even if it means lugging around more things. I was about to stride into the room when Dean grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. My first instinct was to ask why he'd done that, but my words stuck in my throat. By the window was the silhouette of a man—his tall, broad frame blocking most of the moonlight strobing into the room. Sam flicked on the light switch, illuminating the figure. They turned, and my breath hitched.
"Dad?" Dean said, stunned.
"Hey, kids," John smiled, tired and withered but misty-eyed and happy all at the same time. He and Dean met in the center of the room and locked in a strong hug. Just as they began to pull apart, John extended an arm toward me and pulled me in, squeezing me tightly.
"Are you okay?" I asked, blinking away tears.
"I am," he replied, letting us both go.
Sam remained a distance away, eyes brimming. "Hey, Dad," he said.
"Dad, it was a trap," Dean said, retaining his emotions. "I didn't know. I'm sorry," he apologized, always quick to take the fall.
"Neither of us knew," I interjected. We all played a part in it.
"It's alright," John said, his content smile still in place. "I thought it might've been."
"Were you there?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. I got there just in time to see the girl take the swan dive…." John peered up, unsure. "She was the bad guy, right?"
I nodded while the boys answered, "Yes, sir," in unison.
"Good. Well, it doesn't surprise me. It's tried to stop me before."
"The demon has?" Sam asked, finally coming over.
"It knows I'm close. It knows I'm gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to hell—actually kill it."
They seemed so impenetrable—so untouchable. "How can you do that?" I asked.
John's smile ticked upward. "I'm workin' in that."
"Let us come with you," Sam suggested, although his tone leaned more toward demanding than suggesting.
"No, Sam," John answered steadfastly. "Not yet. Just try to understand. This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don't want you caught in a crossfire. I don't want you hurt."
"Dad, you don't have to worry about us."
"Of course I do; you're my kids," John argued. Not even five minutes together, a fight already threatened to erupt between them. When John lifted his gaze, it was much softer. "Listen, Sammy, last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight."
Sam stood up straighter, waiting for an impending verbal lashing. "Yes, sir."
"It's good to see you again," John said, fighting back tears. "It's been a long time."
"Too long," Sam agreed, watching his father closely for a sign of what to do next. He didn't need to wonder very long—John hugged him. Finally, there was a bright spot, a light at the end of the tunnel.
No sooner than when they parted, John was thrown into the cabinets across the room. Even faster, Sam flew to the ground and yelped out in pain. The lights blew out, plunging us into near-total darkness, save for the streetlight shining through the window. A crash came from my right, and then Dean was gone, too. I got pushed back hard, knocking my head into the wall and sending me crumbling. Jagged edges of an invisible force ripped through my torso. I cried out in pain and held the wound.
"Shut your eyes!" Sam shouted. "These things are shadow demons, so let's light 'em up!"
A burst of white exploded with a loud pop through the small space. I shielded my eyes from its blinding light and the smoke that followed. My skin tugged as I clawed to my knees. Dean's hand found mine. We helped each other to our feet and went to retrieve John. He was worse for wear, having received the brunt of the Daeva's anger. Although stumbling, we made it out of the motel in one peace. Chicago's air was by no means pure, but anything was better than where we had just been.
The truck of the Impala is where we found refuge, if only for the moment. Dean carefully lifted my slashed shirt to inspect the three claw marks below. They'd barely scratched the surface. That flare scared the demons away before any real damage could be done.
"It's not that bad," I panted. Adrenaline had taken over; I'd be hurting later.
"It could be worse, yeah," Dean said, avoiding answering my statement too positively. Any injury on me was the end of the world for him, no matter how small. I scoffed internally at myself. How unfortunate was it that I thought of this only as a flesh wound?
"Alright, come on," Sam said, tossing his back through the open back window. "We don't have much time. As soon as the flare's out, they'll be back."
"Sam, wait," Dean instructed, his brows tucked over sullen eyes and a frown. "Dad, you can't come with us."
Sam's expression took the opposite approach. Everything lifted in shock. "What are you talking about?"
"You three—you're beat to hell," John said, still clutching his eldest son's arm.
"We'll be alright," Dean insisted.
"Dean, we should stick together," Sam said. "We'll go after those demons—"
"Sam," Dean warned his brother from taking it two steps too far. Now wasn't the time for arguments; now was the time to do the smart thing. And that meant splitting up. "Listen to me. We almost got Dad killed in there. Don't you understand? They're not gonna stop. They're gonna try again. They're gonna use us to get to him. Meg was right. Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He's stronger without us around."
We were pawns in their game. I didn't want it to be true, but I couldn't deny it. "He's right," I said. "If we all stay together like this, we just become one big target. We're better off alone."
"No," Sam denied, grabbing his father's shoulder, desperately hoping he would side with him. For once. "After everything—after all the time we spent looking for you—please, I gotta be a part of this fight."
"Sammy, this fight is just starting," John said ruefully. "And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son. Okay, you've gotta let me go."
Rather than argue, as I expected he would, Sam dropped his hand.
John patted Dean's arm and shared a look of goodbye with him before turning to me. "You keep these two in line, alright, Vic?" he said.
"Of course." I nodded.
Limping to his truck, John paused at the door. "Please, be careful."
"We will," Dean said. With that, John climbed in and left. The pain from my wounds started to rear its ugly head. I grimaced, reaching for my side. "Come on, Cherry Pie," Dean led me into the backseat, ensuring I was secure before getting in the car himself.
Where we were going, I had no idea. As of right now, there was no destination in mind. That's how it always was, but this time felt different—hollow. We accomplished nothing. The one thing we'd spent the better part of a year searching for had come and gone, stretching the light at the end of the tunnel ever further away.
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