Elastic Heart

by phoenixwritesSPN

"Victoria Evans was thrown into a world she never knew existed when an encounter with the supernatural left her adoptive parents deceased. Rescued by John Winchester, she's taught to be a hunter. Alongside him and his sons, Victoria finds herself where she was meant to be all along." *Rewriting for a better, more well-rounded storyline* Follows s1 with my own spin. {Dean/OFC}

21. Something Wicked (Updated)

Early this morning, long before birds started chirping or the sun even thought of peaking out behind the mountains, Dean's ringtone blasted from the nightstand. The sound woke him up instantly, but I was still groggy and hugging my pillow until his words settled in. What he'd received was a message containing coordinates from John and nothing else. More than the abrupt shock of Dean springing from bed to look up where the string of numbers led was him announcing that we'd be leaving for Wisconsin first thing.

Sam spent the entire time Dean and I packed the room searching for a reason his Dad would send us on a trip to some nowhere town. As far as he saw, there was nothing. Maybe I was too sleep-deprived to care, but I shrugged off his concerns with ease. We didn't have anything else to do, anyhow. Plus, I knew better than to doubt John or Dean and their instincts.

For once, I occupied the front seat of the Impala while Sam took the back. I thought he was going to use the space for sleep. I would have. I should've, considering he did nothing but sit there and complain about where we were heading—how we shouldn't waste our time because there's nothing there. It didn't matter to him that his father was right countless other times. He didn't see anything worthwhile, so no other options existed.

"You probably missed something, that's what," Dean said, tired of his brother's near-constant bickering. He barely took his eyes off the road when he spoke, a telltale sign that he was over it.

"Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers. I couldn't find a single red flag," Sam argued his case again. As though we hadn't heard all of this for the last hour and decided we were still going, anyway. "Are you sure you got the coordinates right?"

"Yeah, I double-checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin."

"It's a dead end, is what it is."

"Sam, you know John wouldn't have bothered getting in contact with us if it weren't important," I said, barely attempting to conceal my annoyance. We were going. That was the end of it. "I mean, do you have anything else in mind? Another job somewhere?"

"No." Sam folded his arms petulantly. "But, I'm telling you," he was quick to continue, "I looked, and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something, I don't know what."

Sighing, I let my hair fall over my shoulder. After what felt like endless days of scrubbing, my normal shade of blonde had returned, save for a tinge of green on the roots at the base of my neck. I focused on the trees zooming past and said, "I guess we'll find out, huh?"

"Maybe he's going to meet us there," Dean suggested. It's a good thing I was looking away because I couldn't seem to stop my eyes from rolling. He was ever the optimist when it came to his father, but after everything that happened, distance was necessary. This was the one and only time since this whole mess began that I was in favor of John ignoring us.

Sam scoffed, sharp and quick. That reaction said it all, but he still felt the need to express his feelings aloud. "Yeah, 'cause he's been so easy to find up to this point."

"You're a real smartass, you know that?" Dean commented. The Impala swayed, forcing my eyes to the interior of the car, where I found him looking back at Sam.

"Eyes on the road!" I pointed to the empty highway.

Dean grumbled something under his breath and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Don't worry," he said, eyes now firmly planted on the blacktop before us, "I'm sure there's something in Fitchburg worth killing."

"Yeah?" Sam questioned indigently. At this point, it was more about getting under his brother's skin than anything else. "What makes you so sure?"

"'Cause I'm the oldest, Which means I'm always right," Dean answered, as though that were the reason and not due to the fact that his entire life was built upon trusting his gut to hunt monsters.

Sam pulled a face. "No, it doesn't."

"It totally does."

"You know what would be so nice right now?" I asked.

"What?" both boys asked simultaneously.

I rolled my eyes at their shared brainwaves and whispered, "Silence."

---

The very moment we crossed city lines into Fitchburg, a blanket of fog fell upon us. Or perhaps it was all in my head, and there was no brume, no smell of ash in the air. It was simply my brain's way of trying to locate a decent reason for our arrival. Realistically, it was just your standard overcast day in the Midwest. A few droplets of rain did nothing to deter the townspeople from going about their lives. Cars filled the road, traveling to and from work and school.

We found ourselves smack dab in the center of the city, across the street from a line of shops and restaurants. None of the usual neon signs directing us to anything amiss were lit. Everything seemed just fine. Maybe Sam was right; maybe John was wrong.

"Still think we need to be here?" Sam wondered as if he could read my thoughts. He accompanied me on the hood of the Impala, where I'd gotten lost people-watching.

I shrugged. After his attitude this morning, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. "Something's gotta be up."

"Why, because Dad said so?" he poked. A sigh escaped my lips as I tilted my head to meet his eyes.

"He's never been wrong before," I said. Sam cocked an eyebrow. "About jobs," I clarified. "He's usually always right on hunts, and you know that."

He didn't want to admit it; instead, he clammed up and found something else to focus on. A loose button on my jacket caught my attention, and I made a mental note to add another stitch or two later. Out of the corner of my eye, Sam shuffled his arms and folded them tight. Before I could ask what was going on, Dean announced his return from the cafe.

"Well, the waitress thinks that the local Freemasons are up to something sneaky—" he began, handing me and Sam cups of coffee from the tray he carried, "but other than that, no one's heard about anything weird going on."

I grimaced, tucking my fingers around the warm styrofoam. Waitresses and bartenders were the number one source of gossip in places like this. If she didn't know anything, then…

"Dean, you got the time?" Sam asked, interrupting my train of thought.

Dean pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. "Ten after four," he replied. "Why?"

"What's wrong with this picture?" Sam nodded to a nearby playground, a few feet away, tucked behind the city center and some landscaping. I didn't even realize it was there. Probably because only one woman and her daughter occupied the space, barely making any noise.

"School's out?" I asked. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a playground so empty at this hour.

"Yeah," Sam said. "So where is everybody? This place should be crawling with kids right now."

"Hold on," I said, pushing up from the car. I traversed the brick walkway and stopped behind the brunette woman busy reading a thick book. "It's awfully quiet out here," I commented.

Although I bothered her mid-page turn, she met me with kind, light blue eyes. "Yeah." Her friendly expression tilted into a frown. "It's a shame. Kids getting sick, it's a terrible thing."

Kids. More than one. Clearly enough to leave a playground deserted. "How many?" I asked.

"Just five or six—but serious. Hospital serious." She fidgeted with the corners of her book and glanced at her daughter. "A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious. They think it's catching."

A moment of silence rested between us. "Thanks for letting me know," I said, slinking away and back to the Impala, where the boys were waiting with their questions. No matter how badly Sam wanted to write it off as a coincidence—that whatever was going on with these kids had nothing to do with his father sending us here—we simply couldn't allow it to go by without checking.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in our suits and heading for the hospital entrance. Sam faltered when he took a closer look at the ID card Dean had given him. "Dude, I am not using this," he said, trying to shove the plastic back into his brother's hand. I opened the door and slipped inside, keeping it propped open for them.

"Why not?" Dean asked, playing dumb. He knew why not, and so did I. An incredibly boring day a few weeks ago prompted him to make a few gag IDs for fun. He promised me we'd never use them. I should've known better.

Sam looked around to ensure we were still far enough away from the hospital staff. "'Cause it says Bikini Inspector on it!" he seared through clenched teeth.

Despite the steam radiating off of Sam, Dean snickered, "Don't worry, she won't look that close, all right? Hell, she won't even ask to see it. It's all about confidence, Sammy," he preached and pushed his little bother toward the desk. The nurse looked up from the stack of papers in her hand as Sam stumbled to a stop.

"Hi," he started shakily, clearing his throat, "I'm Doctor Jerry Kaplin, Centers for Disease Control."

The brunette looked him up and down and zeroed in on his nervous face. "Can I see some ID?" she asked. A breathy chuckle came from my left. I gently smacked Dean's chest with the back of my hand to stop him.

"Don't laugh," I said.

Dean was barely able to restrain his grin. "I didn't!" he exclaimed in a hushed tone.

"Yeah, of course," Sam answered the woman, briskly retrieving the ID. He flashed it so quickly that she probably couldn't even make out his photo. "Could you direct me to the pediatrics ward, please?" he requested, stuffing the card back into his pocket even faster than he had taken it out.

Seemingly satisfied with what little saw saw of his ID, she pointed to the left, just behind me and Dean. "Go down that hall," she said. "Turn left and up the stairs."

Sam mumbled his thanks and walked to us, stiffly crossing one foot in front of the other. He matched his brother's smile with a sour grimace, but that did nothing to stop Dean from savoring the moment. "See, I told you it would work," he declared.

"Follow me," Sam instructed, his narrowed eyes squinting harder with each word. "It's upstairs."

"Hey, at least she didn't notice," I said, suddenly taking the brunt of Sam's frustration. I took a step away and gestured for him to show us the way.

Halfway to the pediatrics department, I realized Dean was no longer behind me. My search for him ended quickly when I spotted him a foot or two away in the middle of the hall, standing before an open room. I backtracked to his side and peered in. A frail, elderly woman with long, thinning grey hair hanging limp around her shoulders sat in a wheelchair in the center of the small space. She was angled toward a window, but the blinds were shut. Her TV wasn't on. It was quiet—eerily so. Somehow, all the sound from the outside world cut off inside those walls, but I couldn't be sure if the uncomfortable feeling swirling in my chest came from the woman herself or my overactive imagination.

After one more quick scan of her room and spotting an inverted cross hanging from her wall, I decided on the former.

Never too old to get into devil worship, I guess.

Cracks and pops rippled down the woman's neck as she craned her head to look at us. I flinched away from her icy stare and scrambled for Dean's hand, leading him away from the ghostly woman. "That was freaky," he said.

"That's why you don't look into random hospital rooms," I scolded. "It's gotta be some kind of bad luck somewhere."

"Yeah," he scoffed. "We got enough of that."

---

At our desired hospital wing, we found the on-staff doctor and followed him through the ICU portion of the pediatrics department. "Thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker," Sam said.

"Well, I'm glad you guys are here," he replied. "I was just about to call the CDC myself. How'd you find out anyway?"

"Oh, some GP—I forget his name," Dean explained breezily. "He called Atlanta and must've beat you to the punch."

"You've got six cases so far?" I asked the doctor for confirmation and also to divert the conversation away from probing into the logistics behind our arrival.

"Yeah, in five weeks," Dr. Hydecker stopped before a room walled off by glass panels and a number-pad-locked door. Inside were the six cases in question. Tiny, frail-looking children laid up in bed with breathing tubes up their noses and wires and monitors hooked to their small arms. "At first, we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia," he explained. "Not that newsworthy. But now the kids aren't responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren't doing their job. It's like their bodies are… wearing out."

"Excuse me, Dr. Hydecker," a nurse called, approaching with a clipboard and pen. She apologized for interrupting and handed him the paper to sign.

"You ever see anything like this before?" Sam asked.

The doctor shook his head. "Never this severe," he said, scribbling his signature.

"And the way it spreads—that's a new one for me," the nurse added. "It works its way through families, one sibling after another."

"And all the parents, they're fine?" I wondered.

She nodded. "Not sick at all. Only the children."

Dean looked thoughtful. I swore I saw a kindling of recognition in his eyes. "You mind if we interview a few of the kids?" he asked.

"They're not conscious."

My eyes drifted back to the glass box. "None of them?" I asked; she shook her head no.

"Can we talk to the parents?" Dean inquired.

Dr. Hydecker sighed. "If you think it'll help," he said, looking unconvinced of that fact. "Sure."

"Who was your most recent admission?"

---

Although she'd been brought in just one day ago, Bethany Tarnower, a five-year-old girl, was in almost just as rough a shape as the other kids who had been here much longer. Her illness was progressing at a rapid pace. Today was her older sister Mary's second day in the hospital with the same ailment, and their father, Miles, a dark-haired man in his late thirties, looked worse for wear with bags under his eyes in the color of bruises and chapped, dry lips cracked with worry. I couldn't imagine having a child so mysteriously sick, let alone two.

"We really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us," I told him sincerely. Without giving any unnecessary details, I wanted him to know how much this meant to us—to those kids. Maybe we could get to the bottom of this if he could give us something.

Miles nodded unenthusiastically. There was only one place he wanted to be right now, and it wasn't with us.

"Now you say Mary is the oldest?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Miles answered. "Thirteen."

"And she came down with it first, right? And then..."

"Bethany, the next night."

"Within twenty-four hours?"

Miles slumped down so far that he almost slipped off his blue plastic chair. "Look, I already went through all this with the doctor."

"Just a few more questions, if you don't mind," Dean implored. "How do you think they caught pneumonia? Were they out in the cold, anything like that?"

"No. We think it was an open window."

"Both girls got sick because of an open window?" I asked. It was a decent theory, sure. Something that could help the parents sleep at night. But I doubt every single kid in that ICU slept in a bedroom with their window open.

"The first time, I– I don't really remember," he answered honestly. "But the second time, for sure. And I know I closed it before I put Bethany to bed."

"And you think she opened it?"

"It's a second-story window. No ledge. No one else could've." Miles inched to the edge of his seat. "I really should get back–"

I shared a look with the boys, silently agreeing that we'd taken up enough of his time. "Of course," I told Miles, stepping aside so he could slip past us. I waited until he turned the corner to talk. "Well, this just got a little more interesting."

"It did?" Sam asked. Once a passing nurse disappeared into a room, he added, "It might not even be anything supernatural. It might just be pneumonia."

"Phenumonia that makes every single one of those kids lose consciousness?" I asked incredulously. It was deadly, sure, but none of this was lining up with normal.

Sam shrugged. "You never know."

"Or something opened that window," Dean said. "Dad sent us down here for a reason. I think we might be barking up the right tree."

"I'll tell you one thing: that guy we just talked to?" Sam's voice trailed up along with his brows. "I'm betting it'll be a while before he goes home," he trailed off. His tone suggested something I wouldn't have expected from him.

Dean snapped his fingers. "Good idea," he said.

"Whoa, wait," I called, stopping them from moving any further down the hall. "You wanna break into somebody's house?" I asked Sam, keeping my voice low so no one would hear. "You?"

Sam pulled his lips taut. "You guys think there's something going on here. What else are we supposed to do?"

"It's the best idea he's had in months," Dean partially joked. He smacked Sam's shoulder and headed for the elevator.

Ten minutes later, the Impala rolled to a stop out front of a boxy two-story home in a faded blue that could use a touch-up. Bare trees splintered tall, lush ones. A wall of hedges lined the property, meeting up with a beat-up grey-colored fence. Everything was muted in tone, nearly blending into the backdrop that was the deep grey sky.

"Uh, hey." I tapped Dean's shoulder. "Maybe we shouldn't keep the car in front of the house we're about to break into?"

Dean's lips fell into a fine line, and he nodded. "Good call," he said, bringing us around the side of the house to a much more inactive part of the neighborhood.

For once, gaining access to the house wasn't the difficult part. We snuck through their open fence and picked the lock on a back door. Just like the outside of the home, the inside was washed in tones of grey and beige. We tip-toed through the dining room to the foyer, up the stairs, and into Bethany's bedroom. Finally, I thought, some color. The walls were painted a vibrant deep purple, popping against her white furniture. The EMF meter in Dean's hand crackled and whined as he turned it on but never made another sound. Toys littered the bed and the shelf above the headboard, no doubt in the same spot Bethany had left them before being admitted to the hospital. I wondered if any of these stuffed animals were her favorites or if her parents had already brought them to her.

Everything I picked up I was careful to put back in the same spot. The girls' parents probably would be too tired to notice anything misplaced, but it wasn't worth the risk.

"You got anything over there?" Sam asked from his spot by the closet.

"Nah, nothing," Dean replied, pushing the antenna back into the EMF meter with a quick slap.

"Just a couple of creepy dolls," I said, standing upright and away from the four porcelain figurines perched above her bed. I propped my hands on my hips. "I don't see anything else."

"Yeah, me neither," Sam's voice faded as he moved further into the room. A lock unlatched, followed by a window squeaking. "Guys? You were right. It's not pneumonia."

"What'd you find?" I asked, joining him by the window. I thought maybe he found a spec of sulfur or a glob of ectoplasm but was instead met with an alarmingly large, humanoid handprint seared into the otherwise pristine white windowsill. It's any wonder Bethany's parents hadn't seen this. It was massive. Dean came up behind me, managing to squeeze in for a view of the marred wood.

"It's rotted." Sam poked at the impression. "What the hell leaves a handprint like that?"

I was fixated on the discovery until Dean bristled beside me. His eyes weren't the same as before—they'd gone cloudy, and his pupils took up most of his irises. "I know why Dad sent us here," he announced, though it seemed hard for him to get the words out. "He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job."

All that from a single print? "How do you know?" I asked, flabbergasted. Dean didn't answer my question—he barely even looked my way.

"We should get out of here," was all he said.

---

It took a few blocks before Dean looked like himself again like he wasn't trapped in his own head. The sky opened up, and raindrops began pelting the Impala's roof in rhythmic taps. I'd almost gotten lost in the sound when Dean spoke. "It's a Shtriga," he said.

Even after reading John's journal front to back and spending endless hours skimming lore books at Bobby's, I couldn't recall hearing of that before. "What's a Shtriga?" I asked.

"It's kinda like a witch, I think. I don't know much about them, but Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about sixteen, seventeen years ago." Much like this morning, Dean glanced back at Sam, but this time, the look was short-lived. It was like he couldn't meet his eyes all of a sudden. "You were there. You don't remember?"

Sam shook his head, and his hair fell below his brows. "No."

"I guess he caught wind of the things in Fitchburg now and kicked us the coordinates."

Through the wall of rain, Dean spotted a motel and pulled into the lot. "So wait," Sam began, "this–"

"Shtriga," Dean finished when his brother hesitated to place its name.

"You think it's the same one Dad hunted before?" Sam asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean answered.

"But if Dad went after it, why is it still breathing air?"

"'Cause it got away," Dean said, cut and dry, and stepped out into the mist.

"What the hell?" Sam complained. I shrugged, unable to find a decent reason for everything. In all these years, I never heard of anything getting away from John Winchester. Sam huffed and tossed open the door to follow his brother. "Got away?" he asked.

"Yeah, Sammy, it happens," Dean said. It might happen to other people, but not John. Not that easy.

As I got out of the car, my boot splashed into a puddle on the wet concrete. "Barely," I said. For it being the middle of June, it'd grown surprisingly cold outside. Each drop of rain felt like an icicle piercing my skin.

"Look, I don't know what to tell you," Dean shrugged, "maybe Dad didn't have his Wheaties that morning," he added lightly, eyes flickering to me, waiting for my smile. It never came. He was trying so desperately to hide his discomfort, but it wasn't working. I saw straight through. This—whatever it was—bothered him. A lot.

"What else do you remember?" Sam pressed.

"Nothing." Dean defiantly tossed out his arms. "I was a kid, all right?" Rather than face any more questions, he disappeared into the motel lobby and let the door snap shut, separating us.

Unsatisfied with the answers he received, Sam ducked into the car and came out with his father's journal. "Something's gotta be in here," he said.

"It's not." I folded my arms. "I would've remembered that." Through the poorly frosted glass door, I could make out a boy with shaggy blonde hair—about eleven or twelve—standing behind the counter, staring up at Dean with a permanent frown. I decided to see what was happening and entered on the tail end of the boy's sentence.

"Yeah, I bet," he mumbled.

Dean bristled at whatever was said moments before. "What'd you say?" he asked.

A big, phony smile overtook the boy's scowl. "Nice car!" he exclaimed. I glanced over my shoulder at the very corner of the Impala's headlight visible through the door. From his vantage point, he probably couldn't see much of it. He was quick on his feet, though. I'll give him that.

The bell chimed behind me, and I stepped out of the way so the brunette woman could enter. Although she looked overwhelmed by the several stacks of paper overflowing in her arms, she smiled warmly at us. "Hi. Checking in?"

"Yeah," Dean replied.

She slipped behind the desk and put the items down. "Michael, do me a favor; go get your brother some dinner," she instructed the boy.

"I'm helping a guest!" Michael claimed, shoulders rising to his ears in frustration. "She needs to be checked in, too!" He gestured to me.

"Oh no, I'm with them," I said, jutting a thumb in Dean's general direction.

Michael's brows lifted so far that his bangs covered half of his eyes. "Yikes," he mumbled. His Mom huffed and gently pushed him out of the way.

"Go," she said. Reluctantly, Michael retreated into the adjacent room. I stepped closer to the desk to get a better look at what was behind it. In a kitchen basked in the warm glow of a yellow-tinted overhead light, Michael took a glass from a cabinet and a carton of milk from the refrigerator and sat them on the table before his little brother. He couldn't be more than seven. Both were in the age range of the sick children, but they appeared to be fine.

"Funny kid," Dean commented, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"He thinks so," Michael's Mom laughed. The sound was raspy and tired but still full of love for her son. "Will that be cash or credit?"

"You take MasterCard?" Dean asked, fishing out his wallet. She nodded and accepted the card before sliding over a printed form. Everything seemed normal until it wasn't, and Dean paused with the tip of his pen pressed to the paper. I followed his frozen eyes to the two boys. At this point, Michael's brother was contentedly drinking his milk and eating his dinner while Michael was busy scrubbing a dish. His brows were tucked down so far they almost touched. I knew that look. I'd seen it on Dean countless times, especially when we were kids.

Gently, so I didn't startle him out of whatever funk he'd fallen into, I touched Dean's arm and called his name. His eyes snapped to mine so quickly that I heard an audible pop in his neck. He cleared his throat, hard and fast, and sucked in a sharp breath. "Sorry," he apologized and began filling out the form. Whether the apology was for the woman behind the counter or me, I wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Sorry's weren't necessary. I just wanted to know what it was about this place that brought such a hazy glaze into his eyes. I wanted to know what he was hiding—because he was hiding something.

While Dean was busy tucking the card back into his wallet, the brunette handed me a set of keys with an attached red leather tag and disappeared into the adjacent room. I watched Dean closely, locked on his face—his shoulders, taking note of how tense each movement was.

"So…" I folded my arms and rested against the counter. "You gonna talk to me, or are you gonna keep up the whole mysterious brooding type schtick?"

Dean chuckled and dipped his chin to his chest. "That's not what I'm doing."

"That's what you always do," I teased and nudged his arm with my elbow. It wasn't true, not really, but easing into a serious conversation with some humor usually did the trick to get him to open up. "What's going on up there?" I nodded to his head.

"Nothing," he insisted. "Everything's fine."

"Really? Everything's fine?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. He glanced back to the door, to Sam waiting outside. "We should get going."

"Okay, yeah," I relented. There was no use in forcing his hand, not tonight. However, that didn't mean I wouldn't leave an offering in hopes he'd take it. "But whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here, okay?"

The moment his eyes met mine, his resolve to stay hidden behind that brick wall started to crumble. Two more seconds, and he would've let me in; I just knew it. But the clank of a dish in the opposing room snapped him back to reality. "There's nothing to talk about," Dean claimed, only this time with less conviction. "But I know," he added and forced a smile.

---

To my surprise, the room was far cozier and much tidier than most—if not all—the places we'd stayed in recent months. My bag landed with a quiet puff on the crisp red comforter adorning the bed furthest from the door. There was no particular reason I chose that one. It was just where I happened to be when the heavy duffle slipped off my shoulder. Dean placed his bag down beside mine and gave what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. Only it didn't reach his eyes. Hell, he barely moved his lips.

I stood stock-still at the foot of our bed, watching Dean unpack lore book after lore book from one of our extra bags. They piled high, creating a physical barrier between us to match the invisible one he started building the moment we stepped foot out of Bethany's bedroom. I walked to the stool on the opposite side of the bar and pulled one of the many books closer, flipping it open at random. A puff of dust plumed from the pages and scattered through the air. I waved it away and plucked a tissue to dust off the book. Nothing here was going to tell me anything about what we were hunting; I knew that much. Still, I needed the distraction.

About a half hour later, a clink of ceramic called my attention to the other side of the short island, where Dean was preparing a pot of coffee. "Isn't it a little late for that?" I asked him. He didn't look up.

"Never too late for caffeine," he said.

"Not if you don't wanna sleep," I commented under my breath.

Dean finally lifted his head and winked. "Maybe I don't."

"Well, you were right," Sam announced from his bed, legs crossed before his laptop. "It wasn't very easy to find, but you were right."

"'Bout what?" Dean asked, still concentrating on making his late-night caffeine fix.

"The Shtriga—it's a kind of witch. They're Albanian, but legends about them trace back to Ancient Rome. They feed off spiritus vitae."

I didn't have the brainpower to decipher a nearly dead language right now and spun the stool around to gently request, "English, Sam."

"It's Latin, translates to breath of life," he explained. "Kinda like your life force or essence."

My lips pursed in thought. "The doctor did say that the kid's bodies were wearing out."

"It's an idea," Sam agreed. "You know, she takes your vitality, maybe your immunity goes to hell, pneumonia takes hold. Shtrigas can feed off anyone, but they prefer—"

"Children," Dean finished.

"Yeah, probably because they have a stronger life force." Sam returned to the laptop. "Get this: Shtrigas are invulnerable to all weapons devised by God and man."

"How the hell do you kill something that can't be killed?" I asked.

Dean gestured to the laptop and said, "That's not right."

I spun back to face him. "It's not?"

"No. She's vulnerable when she feeds," he answered casually, striding over to his half-unpacked bag to retrieve his notebook. "If you catch her when she's eating, you can blast her with consecrated wrought iron. Buckshots or rounds, I think."

Without even noticing what he'd done, Dean confirmed my suspicions. His extensive knowledge showed that he, in fact, did remember. I knew it. I shifted in my seat, watching him return to his spot across from me. "You want one?" he gestured to his cup of coffee. I shook my head no.

"Wait, how do you know that?" Sam asked.

Dean took a sip of his coffee and tapped the eraser end of his pen on the counter. "Know what?" he asked.

"That she's vulnerable when she feeds."

Because he remembers, I thought. I wouldn't say that, though. Not yet.

"Dad told me." Dean looked up for Sam but found my eyes instead. If he knew I was onto him, he didn't let it show.

Of course, Sam was suspicious, too. I could hear it in his laser-focused words. "Anything else Dad might have mentioned?" he probed.

"Nope, that's it," Dean said, scribbling something I couldn't make out on his notepad. I'm not sure how long he figured he could get away with pretending to be clueless or that all this wasn't eating away at him.

"Nothing?" Sam uttered, astonished. His eyes met mine in a look that said he knew his brother wasn't being totally truthful. I didn't say anything; it wouldn't do either of us any good.

"All right, so we can kill it when it's eating," I said, changing the subject. "But we have to find it first. Any clues on that site?"

"Apparently, Shtrigas take on a human disguise when they're not hunting," he informed, crossing the room to the coffee pot.

I sighed. "Then it could be anybody?"

"Historically, something innocuous." Sam turned to me, balancing a white and blue mug in his hands. "Could be anything, but it's usually a feeble old woman, which might be how the witches as old crones legend got started."

Dean's eyes lit. "Hang on," he said, abandoning his notepad and pen to grab a map from the table. He spread it out and pointed to three red X's drawn in marker. Each one dug deeper into the paper than the last. "I marked down all the addresses of the victims. These are the houses that have been hit so far and dead center?"

Dane County Memorial. "The hospital," I said.

"Remember that patient when we were there?" Dean asked me. "The old woman?"

A small gasp escaped my lips. We were right in front of her and didn't even know it. "It's got to be," I said.

"An old person, huh?" Sam asked, hiding a smirk.

"Yeah," I said, hopping off the stool. "And?"

Sam forced his eyes wide. "In a hospital? Woo," he chuckled, turning back to the coffee pot. "Better call the Coast Guard."

Folding my arms, I shifted my weight to the opposite foot. "Funny," I deadpanned. "We'll need them to rescue us from your jokes."

"Listen, smart-ass," Dean began, for once being the one to remain stoic. "She had an inverted cross hanging on her wall."

As his brother's words sunk in, Sam's movements stilled. "An inverted cross?" he asked; I nodded. That was all the convincing he needed, and we were off

---

We hustled down the hospital hallway, avoiding any and all interactions with passing nurses and janitors. They were the skeleton crew and hadn't been here this morning, but we couldn't take any chances. I broke out in front as we attempted to round the last corner before the woman's room but spotted Dr. Hydecker speaking to a nurse. Quickly, I came to a stop and shoved the boys back into the corner between the door and the nurses' station.

The doctor and nurse said their goodnights. She told him to get some rest, and he finally left for the exit, thankfully going in the opposite direction we needed to.

Eventually, we arrived at room two-thirty-seven. Luckily, Dean had remembered it, or else we'd be lost. Retracing our steps would be useless without landmarks of open doors. Sam reached for the doorknob; Dean pulled his pistol from his waistline. I eyed the weapon. "What are you doing?" I asked in a hushed tone.

"Just in case," he whispered with a shrug.

He's not wrong, I thought, pulling out my own gun while Sam lowered the handle and opened the door. He stepped back to allow Dean inside first, then me. I quickly surveyed the dark room. Again, the woman was propped up in the same position as this morning, right beside the seemingly untouched hospital bed. I wondered if she'd ever used it at all or remained confined to the wheelchair all day and night.

A streetlamp broke through the blinds, splitting her face up in strips of shadow and light. I found myself inching nearer in tiny increments. One specific band illuminated her cloudy eyes. You almost couldn't tell where the whites of her eyes ended and her irises began. However, Dean strode right up to the woman's side. Nerves spiked my skin as he leaned closer to her, raising the air on my arms.

"Who the hell are you?!" Her sudden shout was high-pitched and thin, like snapping guitar strings. The force of shock sent Dean stumbling back into the cabinet lining the wall. He recovered quickly and aimed his gun at her. "Who's there?" she screeched. A bright light erupted over our heads from Sam, flicking the switch. The woman's milky eyes settled on me. "You trying to steal my stuff? They're always stealing around here."

"No, ma'am," I answered after unsticking my dry lips. I hurried to tuck away my gun. Dean finally let his tense shoulders drop as he covered his face with an open palm.

"We're maintenance," Sam lied. "We're sorry, we thought you were sleeping."

"Ah, nonsense. I was sleeping with my peepers open!" the woman laughed boisterously. Her smile left almost as fast as it had come. "And fix that crucifix, would you?" She pointed to the cross. "I've asked four damn times already."

"We'll definitely take care of that for you," I promised. Dean taps the edge of the cross, sending it swinging back into its upright position.

---

Our drive back to the motel was full of Sam's laughter. Every few minutes, it would wain and then come back again in full force, usually accompanied by quoting, "I was sleeping with my peepers open."

"I almost smoked that old gal, I swear," Dean grumbled, still frustrated.

"I'm glad you got such a kick out of all this," I told Sam, digging around my jacket pocket for our room key as we exited the Impala.

"Oh, come on, you saw his face!" Sam exclaimed, gesturing to Dean. "It was priceless!"

"I was a little busy trying not to have a heart attack!" I argued, forcefully shoving the key into the lock. Sam snorted. The ever-darkening sky's threat of rain did nothing to stop me from freezing mid-key turn to shoot him a dirty look.

"Laugh it up," Dean told his brother, "Now we're back to square one."

"We'll figure it out," I assured him, opening the door. "Something's bound to come up."

"Yeah, except by then, it might be too–" Dean stopped abruptly. "Hang on," he said, voice fading. I looked up and found him walking across the lot toward Michael, who sat alone outside the main office, slumped down on a metal bench. Handing the key off to Sam, I left him to lock up the room so I could follow Dean.

Michael watched through his bangs as we approached but didn't say a word. What little I could see of his eyes shined with a thin sheen of tears that struggled to cover mountains of guilt.

What could've possibly happened that made him so upset?

"Hey," Dean crouched down to reach the boy's eye level. "What's wrong?"

"My brother's sick," Michael replied.

"The little guy?"

The blond nodded, returning his eyes to the asphalt below his sneakers. "Pneumonia," he said. "He's in the hospital." The guilt in his eyes weighed heavily on his voice. "It's my fault."

"How is it your fault?" I asked.

"I should've made sure the window was latched. He wouldn't have gotten pneumonia if the window was latched."

From the looks of it, Michael had repeated that so often that he actually believed it. I wanted to tell him the truth—that no matter how many times he checked the windows and the doors and made sure his little brother was safe, it wouldn't have prevented this from happening.

"Listen to me," Dean began, his voice stern yet soft. "I can promise you that this is not your fault, okay?"

"It's my job to look after him," Michael argued. It was like watching Dean talk to a reflection of his younger self. There was no way to convince either of them that the world didn't rest on their shoulders.

The bell above the lobby door chimed as Michael's Mom ran out with a big overnight bag and several stuffed animals squished in her arms. "Honey, I want you to turn on the no vacancy sign while I'm gone," she told her eldest. "I've got Denise covering room service, so don't bother with any of the rooms."

Michael shot up from the bench and cried, "I'm going with you!"

The brunette tossed open her car's back door. "Not now," she huffed.

"But I gotta see Asher!"

"Hey, Michael," Dean called, taking a step toward the boy. I remained by the bench with Sam. It seemed best to let Dean handle this. "I know how you feel—I'm a big brother, too," he told Michael, "but you gotta go easy on your Mom right now, okay?"

In Michael's Mom's rush to shove everything into the backseat, her purse clattered to the ground, its contents pouring out. She puffed out a curse and spun around so fast it made her legs wobble.

"Let me get that," I offered, hurrying to stuff the items back inside and handing her the bag before she could protest.

"Thank you," she said, messily smoothing out her long, dark bangs behind her ear. Standing this close allowed me to see the depths of the bags beneath her eyes that weren't there yesterday. Even the ends of her hair splayed off like frayed wire, showing how exhausted she truly was.

"Listen, you're in no condition to drive—why don't you let me give you a lift to the hospital?" Dean suggested, no doubt thinking the same thing as me.

"No." Underneath her denial and the shake of her head was dwindling reluctance. "I couldn't possibly—"

"It's no trouble. I insist," Dean said, holding out his hand for the keys. Her eyes floated to Michael, and her thoughts probably drifted to Asher. Ultimately, she decided pride didn't rise above safety when she dropped the keys into Dean's open palm.

Michael's Mom kissed his head and told him to be good before hopping into the passenger seat of her SUV. Once she was settled, Dean shut the door and nodded for Sam and me to follow him a few steps away from the small family. "We're gonna kill this thing," he seethed, an intensity radiating off him that I hadn't felt in quite some time. "I want it dead, you hear me?"

Even long after Dean and the dark green SUV disappeared past the trees lining the side of the motel property, I still didn't look away. Children becoming targets was a sore subject for us—for anyone—but this felt different. Personal.

The sound of Michael's sneakers turning gravel brought me back to the lot. "You gonna be okay?" I asked. He nodded as he stepped inside. "Everything's gonna be all right," I assured. This time, he barely glanced back. To him, my words were just an empty promise—a regurgitated line spoken by people in times of trouble when they could offer no real solution. Michael would never know the truth about us or the things that we did, but that was okay; he didn't have to. His brother's life being saved would be enough.

Now alone, it was up to Sam and me to jumpstart our plan B, so we headed to the local library. Fifteen minutes after we arrived, Sam was set up at a microfiche reader while I gathered stacks of supernaturally inclined books. Considering that the site covering the Strigha was incorrect about its weaknesses, we could use all the extra lore we could get. Fairly quickly, Sam found some less–than–stellar leads—rails paved with sickly children who never made it. Each attack spanned weeks, sometimes even months, before it laid dormant for years.

Just as I cracked open a creaky old tome about ancient witches, my phone buzzed deep in my pocket. I took it out and flipped it open. "Hey," I whispered. "How's Asher?"

"Not good," Dean replied, voice low and tense. "Where are you?"

"The library. Trying to find out more about all this."

"What have you got?"

A sigh escaped my lips as my eyes met Sam's. Did I tell Dean the whole truth or just half? Good or bad, he deserved to know, I decided. "Nothing great," I admitted. "The same thing happened in Fort Douglas around the time you said John was there. And before that, in Ogdenville. Then, North Haverbrook and Brockway. It goes fifteen to twenty years before hitting a new town."

"How the hell long does it stay?"

"Months. It takes dozens of kids before it moves on, and…" I chewed the inside of my cheek. "They're in comas until they die," I explained. Nothing but quiet came from the other end. "Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "How far back does this thing go?"

"Not sure. The earliest we could find is from this place called Black River Falls in the eighteen-nineties."

"Whoa," Sam breathed, nudging my shoulder. "Look at this." He pointed to a black-and-white photo of several people—a mixture of men and women, doctors and nurses—standing around a little boy's hospital bed. Beneath it was the caption: Pediatricians and doctors from all over have traveled to look into the baffling illness targeting our children. Sam tapped one man in particular.

"Is that who I think it is?" I asked, switching the phone to my other hand so I could lean closer to the microfiche screen.

"Tor, you gotta fill me in here," Dean's voice cracked through the receiver.

"Sam found an old picture of a bunch of doctors standing around a kid's bed. One of them is Hydecker," I explained through breaths weighed down by anger. It was almost too perfect: posing as the very thing that was meant to help these kids get better just so you're close enough to kill them yourself.

"How old is old?" Dean pressed.

"Eighteen-ninety-three."

"You sure?"

"Very sure," I said. "Be careful, okay? Because–" Static filled my ear, followed by the line going dead. With a huff, I snapped the cell shut and tossed it down on the table. The clatter echoed through the otherwise silent space. A few library patrons nearby shot me a dirty look, but I couldn't find it within me to care. All I could focus on was the worry that sparked in the pit of my stomach. If Hydecker knew we were onto him, who knows what he'd do? Dean was smart; he knew better. But sometimes emotions don't see sense.

Sam raised a calculating eyebrow. "He hung up?" he asked.

"Yup." I pushed the chair back and stood. "We got everything we need; we should go."

On the entire drive to the hospital to pick up Dean, my knee bounced relentlessly, and my bottom lip had near-permanent teeth marks on it. The longer we waited out front underneath the entrance overhang, the worse it got. By the fifth check of my watch, I nearly got out of the car when the automatic doors parted, and Dean stalked out. Everything about him screamed mad: the way he walked, the way his shoulders squared into sharp edges. He hopped in the backseat without a single complaint about it. Our collective anger choked us, and nobody said a word.

As soon as we returned to our room, Sam was the first to break the silence. "We should've thought of this before," he said. "A doctor's a perfect disguise. You're trusted. You can control the whole thing."

"That son of a bitch," Dean seethed, tugging off and tossing his jacket down on the bed.

"I'm surprised you didn't shoot him," I said, crossing the room to plop down on the couch.

Dean's brows tucked down. "Yeah, well, first of all—I'm not gonna open fire in a freaking pediatrics ward."

I snorted humorlessly. "Smart."

"Second, wouldn't have done any good because the bastard's bulletproof unless he's chowing down on something," he ticked off his reasons, growing more frustrated as he went. "And third, I wasn't packing. Which is probably a really good thing, 'cause I probably would have just burned a clip in him on principle alone."

"You're getting wise in your old age, Dean," Sam quipped.

"Damn right," Dean nodded curtly. "'Cause now I know how we're going to get it."

I perked up. "How?"

"Shtriga works through siblings, right? Well, last night—"

"It went after Asher," Sam finished.

"And tonight, it'll go after Michael," I said, spine straightening. The evening would be here before we knew it; we were running out of time. "We gotta get him the hell out of here."

"No," Dean said. "That would blow the whole deal."

"There's a deal?" I asked incredulously. When our eyes locked, it was almost as if his thoughts had transferred to me. I grabbed the edge of the couch cushions, creating crescent moon indents in them with my nails. "We can't use Michael as bait; he's just a kid."

Dean's jaw clenched. Not out of anger, but regretfulness of something that hadn't even happened yet. "I know," he said. "I don't like it any more than you do, Tor. But it's the only way."

"The only way?" Sam scoffed, planting his hand on top of the counter. "It's out of the question, is what it is."

"If this thing disappears, it could be years before we get another chance," Dean insisted, matching his brother's sharp tone as he stepped closer to the bar. My grip on the cushions loosened, and I scooted forward. It wasn't like Dean to get this upset so quickly. Not unless he had a reason, and certainly not over something that he'd normally oppose, like using a kid as monster bait.

Sam's teeth audibly snapped shut, and he kept them clenched as he spoke, "I'm not going to dangle him in front of that thing like a worm on a hook."

"Dad did not send me here to walk away!" Dean argued, pointing his finger at no one in particular.

"Send you here?" Sam pushed off the countertop and tilted his head to the side as he stared, like he was trying to get inside his brother's brain. "Dad didn't send you here. He sent us here."

Dean turned away before I could get a good look in his eyes. "This isn't about you, Sam," he huffed, drained from the back-and-forth. "I screwed up, all right? It's my fault." The words fell from him before he had the chance to catch them. Instantly, regret washed over him.

"Hold on," I stood up. "How the hell is it your fault?"

"That's not—" Dean began.

"Not, what? Not what you meant to say?" I challenged. Dean's gaze lingered on the painting suspended from the wall. It held no particular allure, merely a mishmash of smudged pink and purple flowers crammed into a blue vase. Sensing his detachment, I softened my voice as I spoke once more. "What's going on, Dean?"

"You don't get it, all right?" He finally met my eyes; a similar guilt-ridden look that Michael wore crept into his irises, only this was worse. Much worse. "There's no telling how many kids have gotten hurt because of me."

Although I was used to Dean's knee-jerk inclination to blame himself, accustomed to making up some kind of reason for it, this was so far out of left field that I couldn't land on one singular way to make sense of it. I quickly did the math. Sixteen years ago, Dean was nine. Barely tall enough to see over the Impala's dashboard. From everything I knew, he didn't go on his first real hunt until he was twelve. How on earth could he believe that he had anything to do with a creature that had been wreaking havoc decades before he was even born?

"You've been hiding something from the get-go," Sam said. "Since when does Dad bail on a hunt? Since when does he let something get away?"

Dean didn't respond. Instead, he slumped onto the couch, its soft cushions molding around his fatigued form. His exhaustion was evident in the droop of his shoulders. I eased down beside him, close enough that our legs were flush, and reached for his hand, which draped over his knee, to intertwine our fingers.

"Baby, you gotta tell us what's going on," I pleaded. We'd gone far too long beating around the bush; dodging the past and keeping secrets wasn't doing anybody any favors.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, he spoke, "We were in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin—a few years before you came along," he told me.

---

Fort Douglas, Wisconsin
Seventeen years ago

"All right, you know the drill, Dean," John spoke while packing his bag that rested on the motel kitchenette counter. "Anybody calls, you don't pick up. If it's me, I'll ring once, then call back. You got that?"

Although the same thing happened countless times before, Dean repeated what was told. "Only answer the phone unless it rings once first," he droned.

"Come on, dude," John looked over his shoulder at his eldest. "Look alive," he prompted. "This stuff is important."

"I know, it's just… we've gone over it like a million times, and you know I'm not stupid," Dean complained. It was a rare occurrence. Despite his youth, he wasn't one to whine.

"I know you're not," his father conceded. If there was one thing he knew, it was that Dean wasn't dumb. He picked up on things faster than almost anybody else—adults included. Still, that didn't stop John's tone from turning stern. "It only takes one mistake, you got that?"

"I got it."

"If I'm not back Sunday night–?"

Dean almost mentioned the Evans and then stopped himself. "Call Pastor Jim," he corrected.

"Look the doors, the windows, and close the shades. Most important—"

"Watch out for Sammy," Dean answered, peering behind him at his shaggy-haired five-year-old brother sprawled out on the couch watching cartoons without a care in the world. Sure, his life wasn't easy. They moved around all the time, but Sam never knew why. Dean intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

"And if something tries to bust in?" John asked.

"Shoot first, ask questions later."

John smiled and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "That's my man."

---

After preparing a dinner of Spaghettios that Sam claimed he wanted again but then refused, Dean gave up his share of their cereal so his little brother would eat. It wasn't fair, but fair didn't matter. Sam did. So Dean ate the food he made—which, admittedly, did taste like the can it came in—while Sam chomped away happily on his bowl of Lucky Charms. They fell asleep on the couch watching cartoons, the quiet hum of the TV enveloping them all night, making everything seem a bit less lonely.

The next day was much the same, and it dragged on until Dean was busy getting them both ready for bed. Sam stood nearby, too short to reach the sink easily without help. In his arms was the stuffed bunny Victoria had gifted him named Bun. It wasn't terribly creative, but it was the name Victoria chose, so Sam wasn't about to change it. The sight of its floppy, now off-white ears was bittersweet; it reminded Dean of good times, but it also reminded him of the loss of potential for more.

Forcing away those thoughts, Dean focused on his task at hand, squeezing a droplet of toothpaste onto his brother's brush. He waited for Sam to finish before brushing his own teeth and then led him into the bedroom, where one king sized bed sat square in the center.

"This bed is uncomfortable," Sam complained as he crawled beneath the covers.

"It's not that bad," Dean argued gently. Sure, some of the springs were a little pokey, but it could be worse.

Sam huffed. "I wanna go to Mr. and Mrs. Evans next time," he whined.

Hearing their name made Dean tense. He tucked his brother in with a little more force than necessary. "We can't do that, Sam." They'd had this conversation before. It didn't seem to matter how many times he told him; Sam just didn't want to accept it.

"But why?" Sam pressed. He clutched the rabbit tighter as tears filled his eyes. "Don't they like us anymore?"

Dean's shoulders dropped, and he rested on the edge of the bed. "It's not about that, Sammy."

"Then what is it about?"

"A lot of stuff, okay?" Dean dismissed, hoping his brother would let it go. "Come on, you gotta go to bed."

Thankfully, Sam went down without much of a fuss after that. He was snoring in under a minute, leaving Dean to his own devices.

On his way to the couch, Dean spotted his bag. His eyes zeroed in on the outside pocket. Seemingly without permission, he walked over and reached in. The dull, rounded edges of the small piece of metal he pulled out were almost sharp with how cold it was. Dean turned it over, letting it flip between the pads of his fingers to warm it up. Light reflected off the tiny musical note and into his eyes. It wasn't often that he took out the charm. Only sometimes, when he needed to preoccupy his mind with happy memories; this time, however, was bittersweet—instead of lingering on the good, he could only wonder if she had forgotten about them altogether. Probably, he thought. It'd been a year. That's a long time. Victoria had a normal life, no doubt plenty of friends, and better things to do than sit around thinking about some kids who used to show up at her house every once and a while.

And then something strange happened—a longing feeling formed in his chest and pulled him to the phone that hung on the motel's dingy blue wall. He shouldn't do what he was about to, but he couldn't stop his hand from reaching for the receiver and his fingers from dialing the number stamped into his brain. Maybe she'd answer, he thought. This conversation wouldn't be like the ones they had the last time he and Sam stayed with the Evans when he and Tori would sneak downstairs in the middle of the night for leftover dessert, but still, they could talk just for a little bit. It wouldn't be so bad, right?

The phone rang and rang and rang, and Dean almost hung up until the receiver crackled. His chest thumped with nervous excitement.

"Hello?" A familiar voice answered, but it wasn't what Dean wanted to hear. It was Tori's Mom. And while, at one point, this would've brought him comfort, now all Dean could do was freeze. Mrs. Evans was mad at his Dad. His Dad was upset with her. And Dean felt as though it was all his fault. If he hadn't told her about Sam, about the knife, maybe they'd be at the Evans' house right now instead of a motel in the middle of nowhere.

"Who is this?" Rose asked, her voice laced with intuitive suspicion. It was almost like she knew exactly who was on the other end. Dean didn't utter a word. Instead, he slammed the phone back into its cradle and backed away like it was a snake about to bite him.

This was far from the escape he wanted. He crossed the room and tucked the charm back into his bag. Maybe some things are just better left in the past. Dean had to focus on the present. And right now, he needed fresh air—a moment away from the room they'd been stuffed in for the past three days.

Quietly, so he didn't wake his brother, who was fast asleep, Dean crept to the door. He made sure to latch every lock he could from the outside. Sam would be okay, just for a few minutes.

The air was chilly, but the cold acted as a reminder of the present; a welcome break from the memories that haunted him.

Across the lot from the motel was an old diner, half of which held an arcade. Minutes turned to hours, and Dean lost track of time. Before he knew it, he was the only one left inside. An older man exited the kitchen, drying his hands with a dishtowel and informing Dean that they were closing up and he needed to leave.

With a heavy sigh, Dean shoved his hands into his pocket and exited back into the brisk autumn night. No sooner than when he entered the room did Dean sense something was wrong. Though already musty, the air inside seemed to grow heavier—saturated with an ominous foreboding. He quickly scanned the open space. Nothing appeared amiss. Dean forced himself further toward the bedroom. The door was ajar, open just enough for him to spot a strange, grey light enveloping the small space. Hinges creaked and groaned as Dean pushed the door open.

A silhouette adorned in a black cloak hovered over Sam; the light wasn't coming from the figure but instead from Sam, leaving his body and absorbing into the creature.

Thinking quickly, Dean carefully grabbed the rifle that was propped up nearby and cocked it. The figure heard the sharp click of the gun and snapped its head up to reveal decaying, grey skin pulled over thin bones. An inhuman screech left its black void of a mouth.

Nothing scared Dean. At least, that's what he forced himself to believe. You couldn't be a hunter if you were scared, and that's what Dean was: a hunter. He didn't have a choice. But something about this—whether it be the colorless white eyes or the fact that it was hurting his little brother—made a shiver run down his spine. Dean couldn't pull the trigger; he couldn't even breathe.

Even the bang of the door hitting the wall behind him made Dean jump. John's booming voice shouted for him to get out of the way. Somehow finding his footing, Dean ducked out of the way just in time. Bullets flew above him, connecting with the creature in several powdery thuds. It fell back, crashing through the window and out of sight. John bypassed his eldest and went straight to Sam, pulling him into his arms and pushing his hair back.

"Sammy?" he called, voice stricken with a fear Dean had never heard before. "Sammy, are you okay?"

A groggy Sam, somehow still half asleep, barely cracked open his eyes. "Dad?" he mumbled, confused and rubbing his face. "What's going on?"

Dean peered around the corner but didn't say a word.

"What happened?" John inquired, still clutching Sam to his chest.

"I–" Dean stuttered, fearful of what would happen when the truth came out. "I just went out."

John's already stern gaze turned harsh, like a storm cloud darkening overhead. "What?" he seethed.

"Just for a second." Dean tucked his hands into his back pockets and lowered his chin down below his shoulder line. "I'm sorry."

"I told you not to leave this room." The volume of his father's voice increased until it erupted. "I told you not to let him out of your sight!"

John was by no means a warm person, but the rest of the night, things were different—colder. Dean thought it would pass, but it never did. Not really. Eventually, things smoothed over, but it was like everyone was pretending. Dean knew why; it was his fault, after all. If he had just listened, none of it would've happened. He didn't have many answers, but there was one thing he knew for sure: It would never happen again.

---

Present

I'd always been aware of John's questionable approach to parenting. Despite being young, I vividly recall the times he dropped Sam and Dean off at my house and vanished for days, sometimes weeks on end. Back then, I didn't comprehend the depths of how troubling it was, and in spite of being puzzled by John's actions, I was mostly just excited to see the boys again. Years later, I got to witness his abandonment firsthand. By then, getting ditched in some random, middle-of-nowhere town was annoying, sure, but being left to fend for yourself as a teenager was nothing compared to a hunt. It gave me a sense of false freedom, so I didn't mind.

None of that compared to what Dean went through all those years before I arrived—all the weight he had to shoulder on his own. Over time, the responsibility to keep Sam and each other safe didn't appear as heavy for him—not when he shared it with me. Whenever I dug deeper into his reasoning for so staunchly doing what John said, he'd simply reply something happened when we were kids; I don't wanna talk about it. I could tell how uncomfortable it made him, so I always let it go. Now, finally being privy to this story in such great detail, hearing Dean's voice become constricted like he was right back in that motel room with all the walls closing in, buried under the enormous burden of keeping another child alive when he was still one himself, was almost too much to bear.

"Dad just grabbed us and booked," Dean said, though I was so lost in my head I barely noticed him talking again. "Dropped us off at Pastor Jim's, about three hours away, but by the time he got back to Fort Douglas, the Shtriga had disappeared. It was just gone. It never surfaced until now. Dad never spoke about it again; I didn't ask. But he, uh—" Dean cleared his throat roughly and stationed his eyes on the ground. "He looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blamed him. He gave me an order, and I didn't listen. I almost got you killed," he told Sam.

"You did?" I questioned, unable to stop myself.

"Yeah," Dean replied with unmistakable resignation. "Me."

"You were just a kid," Sam countered, his tone laced with sadness.

"Don't," Dean interjected firmly. He didn't want to hear it because he believed it was an excuse. Only, it was the furthest thing from that. "Dad knew this was unfinished business for me. He sent me here to finish it."

I scowled and bit down on the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from talking. It wasn't his business to finish, but it was clear he wasn't about to entertain any other perspectives right now, even if they were based in reality.

"But using Michael—I don't know, Dean," Sam broached the subject gently this time. "I mean, how about one of us hides under the covers? You know, we'll be the bait."

"No, it won't work," Dean said. "It's gotta get close enough to feed—it'll see us. Believe me, I don't like it, but it's gotta be the kid."

---

"You're crazy!" Michael cried, snatching the phone from its cradle behind the desk and holding it out like a weapon. Needless to say, his reaction to being informed that a monster was the reason his brother got sick was pretty par for the course. "Go away, or I'm calling the cops!"

"Hang on a second. Just listen to me," Dean implored. "You have to believe me, okay? This thing came through the window, and it attacked your brother. I've seen it. I know what it looks like 'cause it attacked my brother once, too."

Michael slowly lowered the receiver, his brow creasing in thought. "This thing, is it like… it has this long, black robe?" he inquired cautiously, voice tinged with unease.

Standing behind Dean, I couldn't see his face, but the tensing of his back was unequivocal. "You saw it last night, didn't you?" he asked, the question charged with a mixture of apprehensive urgency.

Michael pulled in a shaky breath. "I thought I was having a nightmare," he said, almost as a question, like he hoped we would confirm his suspicion so he could go on believing that's really all it was.

"I'd give anything not to tell you this, but sometimes nightmares are real," Dean confessed solemnly.

"So, why are you telling me?"

"Because we need your help."

"My help?" Michael's incredulity echoed in the small room.

"We can kill it," Dean nodded to Sam and me, "that's what we do. But we can't do it without you."

"What?" Michael's eyes widened in disbelief. "No!"

"Michael, listen to me. This thing hurt Asher," Dean said, trying to appeal to the boy in the same manner someone would be able to connect with him had the roles been reversed. "And it's going to keep hurting kids unless we stop it, understand me?"

Michael's big eyes glimmered with panic, and he took a step back, his breaths coming in shallow pants. "I don't know what you want from me, but I– I think you should go."

"Wait–!" Dean called in desperation as our one chance at getting the Strigha slipped away. His fist balled and connected with the countertop, making a quiet thud. I walked up and placed a gentle hand on his back. His taut muscles visibly eased under my touch.

"We should go," I urged, calm but firm. The only thing we'd get out of staying in this lobby was three sets of handcuffs and a night in a holding cell.

Although defeated, Dean led the way out of the lobby, jaw set tight. It's almost as if the grounds knew what was to come; what had once been a brightly lit lot was now shrouded in impending darkness, save for the neon red motel sign stating no vacancy, highlighting the deep cracks in the asphalt. I stayed close to Dean, brushing my hand against his in silent support, but back inside the room, we parted ways.

"Well, that went crappy," he said, beginning to pace back and forth, creating a worn line in the threadbare carpet. I rested against the bar, watching him.

"What did you expect?" Sam wondered, plopping on his bed with a puff. "You can't ask an adult to do something like that, much less a kid."

"The Strigha is gonna come for Michael anyway, right?" I reasoned. "I mean, can't we just… I don't know, show up?"

Dean stopped to prop his hands on his hips, his expression grim. "It'll hear us bust in; it'll get away," he said.

A light rap on the door broke through our discussion. The sound was gentle, almost hesitant. Dean crossed the room and turned the worn brass doorknob, revealing a somber but determined Michael on the other side. "If you kill it, will Asher get better?" he asked, fighting away the tremble in his voice.

"Honestly?" Dean glanced back at me, then Sam. Although neither one of us said a word, the looks on our faces were enough confirmation. Lying to Michael would be cruel, even if it were a means to an end. Dean's chest lifted with a hefty breath. "We don't know," he admitted.

"You said you were a big brother," Michael began, allowing a tinge of vulnerability to show. "You'd take care of your little brother? You'd do anything for him?" he asked, eyes searching Dean's face for reassurance.

"Yeah, I would," Dean affirmed, gaze steady. I shared a smile with Sam at the exchange taking place before us. Beneath the protective shell that Dean put on was a tender soul filled with an unwavering willingness to protect those he cared for at any cost; this was the side of him that I fell for, and it warmed my heart to see him express it so freely.

"Me too," Michael declared firmly. "I'll help."

---

Down the hall from the lobby, past the dark wood-paneled kitchen and attached living room, was Michael and Asher's bedroom. Like most kids their age, one still a child and the other transitioning into their teenage years, it housed a mixture of cherished relics and budding interests. A worn teddy bear was propped on the desk beside a computer and a Game Boy. Toy monster trucks and a basketball sat on the shelf above their headboards.

While Dean hooked up the security camera on the top shelf of a bookcase only he or Sam were tall enough to reach, I got Michael situated in bed. After a good twenty minutes of pretending like he could take on the world, his fear was finally beginning to peak through. He was white as a ghost now and clutching the sheets so tight I couldn't be sure they'd ever get the wrinkles out.

"And you guys are gonna be here, right?" he asked again. "You're not gonna leave or anything?"

"Of course not," I reassured. "We wouldn't do that. We'll be right in the next room."

"Are we good?" Dean asked Sam through the interface.

"A hair to the right," he replied, his muffled voice coming out of the camera's speaker. "There, there."

Michael's shaky gaze flickered to the window, then back to me. "So, what do I do?" he asked.

"You just stay here, under the covers," I said, tugging the comforter a bit tighter. "Pretend you're asleep."

"And if it shows up?"

"We're gonna come in with guns," Dean said, making his way over. "So as soon as we do, you roll off this bed, and you crawl under it."

What little color was left in Michael's cheeks drained. "What if you shoot me?" he gasped.

"We won't shoot you. We're good shots, and we're not going to fire until you're clear," Dean reassured. "Have you heard a gunshot before?" he asked, aiming to gauge the boy's level of preparedness for what might lie ahead.

Innocence pierced Michael's brave exterior. It made me want to call this whole thing off. "Like in the movies?" he asked.

"It's gonna be a lot louder than in the movies," Dean explained. "So I want you to stay under the bed, cover your ears, do not come out until we say so. You understand?"

Michael nodded, but barely. "I understand."

Dean shuffled past me and perched on the edge of the bed. "Michael, you sure you wanna do this?" he asked, voice soft. He never thought it was his strong suit—the comforting mushy stuff—but he was good at it. More than he knew. "You don't have to. It's okay, we won't be mad."

"No, I'm okay," Michael decided and let out a nervous, breathy laugh, "just don't shoot me."

"We're not going to let anything happen to you. I promise," Dean said, his tone absolute. With a reassuring pat on the shoulder from me, we finally left. Long before we set up our plan, I'd already begun mentally preparing myself for whatever came next. However, that didn't stop my mind from lingering on what happened previously. As far as I was concerned, the conversation was left unfinished. Over the years, he'd never told me. Knowing him as well as I do, it was likely because he figured I would think along the same lines as he did, as John did—that he failed. It couldn't be further from the truth, and I needed to set the record straight.

So, rather than immediately heading for the living room where Sam was waiting, I hurried to step between Dean and the mouth of the hall, stopping his stride. "What's wrong?" he asked, on high alert in under a second.

"Nothing," I quickly comforted his fears. "I just– can we talk for a second?"

Dean met my eyes, his crackling with uncertainty. "Sure," he tentatively agreed.

"Before… after you told us what happened back in Fort Douglas," I began. His gaze hit the wall behind my head, but I kept going, "I didn't say much."

"Yeah." Dean forced a weak smile. "I noticed."

"It has nothing to do with you. I was upset because John–" I spat his name through gritted teeth and choked back what threatened to follow: that he messed up; that what he did to Dean—forcing upon him the obligation of his little brother's safety from the moment they left Kansas—was one of the worst decisions he could've made. No matter how true that was, saying it wouldn't stop Dean from feeling the way he did, and now that my anger had dwindled, all I cared about was helping him feel better. "You need to know that what happened is not on you, Dean. If you were there–"

"I could've done something," he insisted stubbornly. Or maybe he was acting out of years of conditioned guilt; I couldn't tell.

"No, the Shtriga could've killed you," I said. Dean's brows ticked up in surprise—like he'd never thought about it before. He found refuge in the deep green carpet below us, away from me, my words—the truth. "Look at all the things you've done, all the people you've saved. They'd be gone right now if it weren't for you. So yeah, maybe this one got away when you were a kid. But it wasn't your fault."

Dean's throat clicked as he swallowed; admitting he hadn't done anything wrong didn't come easy, not when the exact opposite was all he'd been fed for a good portion of his life. "I'll tell you one thing," he began, voice thick with emotion that he didn't try to hide. Finally, he looked up at me through misty but steadfast eyes. "That son of a bitch isn't getting away this time."

Maybe I didn't believe killing this Strigha was Dean's responsibility, but it was crystal clear this would be the only way for him to get closure. "Not a chance," I asserted, taking his hand and squeezing it tight, a silent promise radiating from my grip. Even though it'd been this way for quite some time now, I wanted to reinforce that he wasn't alone—not anymore, and not ever again.

Standing on my tip-toes, I pressed a tender kiss to his lips. Though I had to reach up to meet him, he quickly caught on and met me halfway, allowing me to fully melt into his embrace.

For once, I didn't get too lost in the moment. We had a job to do and needed to stay focused. I pulled back but didn't stay very far, and even as we walked to the living room, he kept me tucked into his side.

---

Five hours, two cups of coffee, and one energy drink later, my heart was doing backflips while my eyelids were dropping, cutting off the grainy live footage of Michael's bedroom. There hadn't been the slightest whisper of anything; no chirping crickets or croaking frogs. The quiet outside beyond these walls was echoed within. I thought Michael had fallen asleep quite a few times until he shuffled around beneath the covers, still awake—and much like us—still nervously awaiting the Strigha.

"What time is it?" Dean asked. I forced my dry eyes open far enough to check my watch.

"Three," I said, leaning forward to prop my elbows on my knees. Dean looked just as awake as before—showing practically no sign of exhaustion despite being up even longer than me.

"You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?" Sam checked for the second time.

"Consecrated iron rounds," Dean corrected, eyes still locked on the screen. "And yeah, it's what Dad used last time."

A few ticks of silence passed before Sam spoke again, "Hey, Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean lowered his brows and looked to me for a clue as to why Sam was apologizing. I shrugged, not having the slightest idea. "For what?" he asked his brother.

"I've really given you a lot of crap for always following Dad's orders," Sam said regretfully, something I never thought I'd hear when it came to this particular topic. "But I know why you do it."

"Oh, god, kill me now," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes and returning them to the TV. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, I knew how much it meant to him. Relief that after all this time, there was understanding, no matter how slight.

Unaffected by Dean's dismissal, Sam smiled and returned his attention to the headphones attached to the camera.

Although our chairs were barely touching, I still felt Dean's rattle as he sat up straight. "Look," he said, pointing at the screen. My eyes pinged to every corner and came up empty. What could he be seeing that I didn't?

A few painstakingly slow seconds ticked by before I found it, a sickly thin shadow emerging from the side of the window, nearly blending in with the tree branches behind it. A claw-tipped hand lifted the glass pane open just far enough for the rest of its black cloak-covered body to duck through.

Without hesitation, I pulled out my gun and moved to stand but was stopped by Dean grabbing my arm. "Wait," he instructed. I almost argued that Michael didn't have time to wait but promptly decided against it. One wrong move could ruin this whole thing, and me charging in there would be just that.

The Strigha stopped at the end of the bed, menacingly hovering there for a moment or two before taking slow, deliberate steps toward Michael.

"Now?" Sam asked, antsily shuffling closer to the edge of his seat.

Dean shook his head. "Not yet."

Its skeleton-like fingers inched closer until they clutched Michael's shoulders. To his credit, he didn't move or make a single sound. Granted, he was probably paralyzed by fear, but he was still brave all the same.

When the creature's mouth opened wide, Dean finally jumped up, his chair clattering back across the hardwood floor. In a snap, Sam and I followed, rushing into Michael's room with Dean leading the charge. The bedroom door banged against the opposite wall, startling the Sthriga upright. It wailed at us, a high-pitched, warbling sound that came from deep within.

"Michael, down!" Dean shouted. The blond obeyed and disappeared in a flash of sheets being tossed. Bullets rang from our guns, hitting the Shtriga and knocking it to the ground, where it landed with a loud and heavy thud.

"Are you okay, Michael?" I asked, still keeping my pistol trained on the unmoving black cloak contorted beside the baseboard.

"Yeah," he replied breathlessly, like he'd just run a marathon.

"Just sit tight," Dean instructed, slowly approaching the Shtriga. I waited with bated breath.

Faster than I could register what was happening, the Strigha rose, grabbing Dean by the throat and tossing him into the closet. There was no time to run to him because the cloaked figure came for me next. Easily, like I weighed nothing at all, it tossed me back against the door. My gun went flying out of my hand as the doorknob hit me in the center of my spine, knocking all the air from my lungs in a single gust.

I clenched my teeth and held my breath, waiting. For what, exactly, I wasn't sure. But then, The Shtrigha's pale-white soulless eyes drifted across the room to Sam. It wasn't going after me, I was in its way of getting him. It seemed as though after all these years, the Shtrigha had unfinished business of its own. In all its time on earth, I doubt anyone got out of its clutches except for Sam.

The creature was quick to subdue him on Asher's bed; it hovered over him, hand clasping his jaw and emaciated face mere inches from his. In reality, what lasted only a few seconds felt like minutes. Sam's skin turned a pale shade of grey with sprouting purple veins, thinning out like stretching parchment over bone.

"Hey!" Dean's voice came from across the room, followed by a bullet that lodged straight between the Strigha's eyes. Dark red, almost black, blood splattered from the wound. It teetered and then fell back onto the ground. "You okay, little brother?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't respond with words, just panting and two thumbs up.

"Baby–?"

"Yeah, I'm good," I reassured, using the very doorknob that would undoubtedly leave a bruise on my back to help me to my feet. Now that we were all standing, I could see trickles of blood rolling down Dean's temple. "You're–?"

"I'm fine," he replied, glaring daggers at the dead creature. Dean raised his gun, unloading the rest of the clip into its torso. Its already fragile-looking flesh caved in on disintegrating bones until it was one big pile of dust inside its cloak.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fraction of fuzzy blond hair peering over Asher's bed. I nudged Dean and nodded to the boy. "It's okay, Michael, you can come out," Dean told him.

Michael crawled out from beneath the bed and came over, staring at the remains of the Strigha with shocked awe. Dean patted Michael's shoulder and smiled, but this one was different from the others today. It was genuine—free.

---

We gave Michael the same speech as everyone else, unfortunate enough to be exposed to this world: don't tell anyone what you saw, what you heard. No matter how hard it'd be, pretend like it never happened.

Ensuring the boys' room was as spotless as it had been before we arrived, we left to start packing. I caught the bag Sam threw and plopped it in the trunk. Dean practically bounced as he walked out of the room. He seemed so much lighter now. I couldn't help but wonder how many times this memory weighed him down.

An engine clunked and came closer to the lot. Squinting in the sunlight, I found Michael and Asher's Mom, who Dean learned was named Joana, come into view. She parked and got out, fumbling with her keys. "You're leaving?" she asked, smiling big. She looked happy. That had to mean something, right?

"Yeah, it's time we move on," I said, leaning on the Impala's bumper.

"How's Asher doing?" Dean inquired hopefully.

Before she could answer, Michael bounded out of the motel lobby and into her arms. "Hey!" she beamed, holding him extra tight.

"How's Ash?" he asked.

"Got some good news. Your brother's gonna fine," Joanna said, ruffling her son's hair. I exchanged looks of relief and joy with Sam and Dean. We all feared the worst—that doing what we did, killing the Shtriga, wouldn't be enough to repair the damage it had done to those kids. But none of us wanted to vocalize it.

Michael smiled. "Really?"

"No one can explain it; it's a miracle," she said, and turned to include us "They're going to keep him in overnight for observation, and then he's coming home."

"That's great," Dean added happily.

"What about all the other kids? How are they?" I wondered.

"Good," Joana said. "Real good. A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis says the ward's going to be like a ghost town."

"Dr. Travis?" Sam asked, catching the name change. "What about Dr. Hydecker?"

"Oh, he wasn't in today. Must have been sick or something."

"Yeah, must have," Dean commented innocently, throwing a look back at me.

"So, did anything happen while I was gone?" Joanna asked her son.

"Nah." Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "Same old stuff."

"Okay." Joanna bushed his hair back. "Well, you can go see Ash."

The blond's entire demeanor changed to one of excitement, and he was nearly vibrating with it. "Now?"

"Only if you want to," she barely even got her words out before Michael began running to the car, jumping into the passenger seat. "I'd better get going before he hotwires the car and drives himself," Joanna chuckled, waving goodbye to us as she left.

"You know," I tapped my chin, "that kid reminds me of someone. Just can't figure out who."

Dean chuckled and slithered his arm around my waist to pull me in. "I'm not sure why you would say that," he joked.

"It's too bad, though," Sam said, making his way to his side of the Impala. The tone of his voice made me sober up. He sounded forlorn, and I couldn't figure out why.

"Oh, they'll be fine," Dean said, releasing me to retrieve the car keys from his pocket.

"That's not what I meant." Sam rested his arms on the top of the car. "I meant Michael. He'll always know there are things out there in the dark—he'll never be the same, you know?" he trailed off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes I wish that… I could have that kinda innocence."

After a long pause, so quiet you could hear a pin drop, Dean spoke, "If it means anything, sometimes I wish you could, too," he said, sharing a look with his brother before gently rubbing my back right over the red mark on my spine. "You too, Cherry Pie."

"Well, if we deserve it, so do you," I pointed out with conviction. Dean looked down, doubtful. Rather than answer positively or negatively, he opened my door before slipping into the front seat along with Sam. I remained outside for a moment, looking up at the clear blue sky.

It was a double-edged sword; one I knew Dean felt all too well. Torn between being selfish and doing what was right for others. But even though there was indeed a part of me that longed for ignorance, the thought of living life blind to what was really out there was strangely… unnerving. The fact that I did just that for nearly fourteen years is insane to me now. Maybe I could've done something if I had known more back then. I struggled with the idea of that for a long time. Sometimes, I still did.

However, since going back wasn't an option, I sure as hell could move forward; in doing that, I was able to help people like Michael and Asher. Because, ultimately, that's what it was all about. Just this past year alone, we saved dozens of lives. We were part of a larger picture. So even though this life wasn't always easy, and I wished a few things in all of our pasts went differently, it felt good to know I had a part in making the world a little safer alongside people I loved.

---

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to review! I love to hear your thoughts!

Tumblr: phoenixwritesfanfiction (lots of content here. Manips, gif edits, playlists, etc)
Twitter: phoenixwrites79
Instagram: phoenixwritesfanfiction