Merry Messages
As Toby drove down the long road to Bobby's, Faith trembled in the passenger seat. Toby frowned and turned up the heat, only to find it was already blasting at full capacity.
"Sorry," said Toby, casting her a concerned look. "I've no idea what's wrong with the heat."
"Probably just needs re-gassing," Faith muttered, pulling her sweater tighter around her body. "I'm sure Bobby won't mind taking care of it over the holiday."
It was early in the day on Christmas Eve. December in South Dakota wasn't usually quite this frigid, but when Faith had pointed that out to Toby, he'd gone on a rant about climate change, so she'd resolved to keep her mouth shut in the future.
When Bobby rang the day before to ask about her plans for the holiday, Faith confessed they didn't have any. They'd just finished up a hunt – a Rugaru over in Michigan. It had been brutal to say the least, and the last thing Faith had felt like doing was celebrating Christmas with the red stain of the thing's blood on her hands.
She liked her job, she really did (probably more than was wise), but Faith couldn't deny that there was something about murder – be it monster or otherwise – that didn't exactly put her in the festive mood.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're only a couple hours out. Come back here," Bobby had insisted when Faith told him they would probably just stay somewhere with room service to celebrate – a slight upgrade from their usual dives. They didn't do it often because they were far more likely to get caught out for credit card fraud at the Ritz than they were at some sleazy hole where they paid by the hour and had a condom dispenser in the lobby.
"Why, you throwing a party?" she'd shot back.
"Yeah, a party for three. Come on, Faith. I've got eggnog," he'd added enticingly.
Faith had chuckled. "Oh, well, if you have eggnog."
And that was how they found themselves on the drive back to Bobby's. It had, over the months, become a sort of home-base. Strange, Toby said, to have somewhere to return to after a job. Strange, to know they had a roof over their heads if needed, no questions asked.
Toby pulled into their usual parking spot – little more than a patch of dead, flattened grass outside Bobby's front door – and they climbed out into the chill to grab their duffels from the trunk.
It was a lot warmer inside Bobby's house. Despite the shining sun, the air was frigid, and it bit at them like teeth. Faith breathed a sigh of relief, not even bothering to put down her bag before she let the call of the heat pull her deeper into the house, towards the fireplace which was already bursting with delicious warmth.
"Bobby, we're here!" she called as she shuffled over to the flames. Her bag hit the floor with a thud, and she knelt on the floor beside it, thrusting her hands as close to the fire as she dared.
"Took you long enough," sniped Bobby, appearing in the kitchen doorway wearing not only an apron, but a pair of felt antlers over the top of his usual baseball cap. "Traffic?"
"It's a nightmare on the roads," said Toby, wandering through the door leading to the hallway, his shoes missing, colourful socks on full display. "I believe we were promised eggnog?"
Bobby met Toby in the middle of the room with a clap on the back, urging him into the kitchen from which Faith only just now picked up on the most wonderful of scents. She reluctantly left her spot by the fire, greeting Bobby with a friendly kiss on the cheek before following Toby into the kitchen.
Bobby seemed to be cooking several things at once. Faith was useless when it came to the culinary arts, so she could barely make heads or tails of everything happening in the kitchen, though Toby seemed to know his way around well enough. He fished a spoon from the drawer and used it to taste the stew that was simmering on the stove.
He moaned at the taste and went to dip the spoon back in for more, only for Bobby to appear and slap his hand sternly. "That's unsanitary."
Toby's eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. "I think the health and safety inspector will let this one slide," he assured Bobby, only to receive another slap for his cheek.
"Would you just go clean up already?" Bobby huffed, stealing back the spoon and taking it over to the sink to wash. "You smell like a Wisconsin gas station."
Faith mock-gasped and brought a hand to her chest. "How did you know?"
Bobbly rolled his eyes and threatened to beat them with a rolling pin if they didn't get out of his hair. Toby let Faith shower first and, just because it was Christmas, she even made sure not to use up all the hot water in one go. As she dressed in her only pair of leggings, a tank top and a pair of ridiculously fluffy socks, she realised she was the most relaxed she'd felt in weeks.
Living on the road as they did, she got used to wearing jeans to bed – in case of an emergency – and flip flops in the shower – in case of numerous fungal diseases Toby had described in truly graphic detail when they'd first started hunting together.
It was so rare that she wore something comfortable, something that wasn't designed to keep her alive in the elements or ready to bolt at a moment's notice. As Faith descended Bobby's stairs, she felt such an overflowing gratitude that it nearly brought her to her knees. Bobby's house didn't just feel like their weird version of Hunting Headquarters.
It truly felt like a home.
She barely noticed herself move into the study, but suddenly she was warming herself by the fire again, listening to Bobby putter about in the kitchen. "Hey, Faith?!" he called after a while of easy company. "Give me a hand?"
She moved into the kitchen, watching as Bobby seemed to be trying to accomplish four different tasks at once. "Everything okay?"
"Would you stir this for me?" he asked, nodding to the pot of something that continued to simmer on the stove.
Faith hesitated. "I'm not so great in the kitchen…" she began – trying to explain that she'd likely somehow poison them all if he let her anywhere near the food – but he cut her off before her excuses could really get going.
"You've just gotta keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot, that's all," he explained. "I promise, there's no way even you could screw this up."
Coming from anyone else, it would probably be offensive. But Bobby was warm, and he pointed out her faults like they made him fond. It was a strange sensation; to be liked by someone who truly wanted nothing in return. She realised with a start that Bobby was actually her friend. They were buddies. That was real.
She took the wooden spoon and began to tentatively stir whatever Bobby had cooking – some sort of chilli, judging by the smell. With a grateful nod he moved over to the cutting board where he seemed to be kneading dough.
"Do you always go all-out for Christmas?" she wondered after they'd worked in silence for a long time, the air easy and calm.
"Not always," he admitted. "But I like the holidays. Always have. If I'm by myself, I don't bother much with the bells and whistles… Anyway, cooking's always better when there's somebody to cook for."
There was a note to his voice, a sort of loneliness which made Faith sad. She didn't think often about how it must be, living alone in this big empty house. Had it always been empty, she wondered? Or had it once been full of life and light? Had it once had more than just he and a cursed young woman to call it home?
She wanted desperately to ask, but it was Christmas, and something told her the answers to her questions wouldn't add to the festivities. Faith swallowed back her curiosity and instead offered a piece of herself in return.
"We're looking into my father."
Bobby nodded. "Toby updated me while you were in the shower," he explained gently. "Just the basics. Said you're waiting for that Ash boy to get back to you with information."
"With any luck, he'll turn up something good."
"And what would 'good' be?"
The question gave her pause. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Something that answers more questions than it creates, I guess."
Bobby chuckled drily. "Things are rarely that convenient. You want answers wrapped up in a neat little bow, then I think you've picked the wrong job."
Faith's responding smile was faint. "Yeah," she agreed, eyes on the chilli she was stirring. There was something calming about the repetitive motion, and Faith relaxed more as she inhaled the aroma of spices that drifted up from the pot.
"Does it make you nervous?"
Faith looked up from the chilli. "Hm?"
"Looking into your old man," he said, still kneading the dough. "I can imagine it might be difficult."
Her smile was wan. "You don't think I should be curious? Excited, maybe, to learn more?"
"The guy's a stranger," Bobby said without looking up from his task, as if he knew it was a hard topic for her and the last thing that she wanted in that moment was his full attention. "He died twenty-some years ago. Nothing you learn about him should matter. Except that it does. It matters a lot – a whole lot. And that's a scary thing."
He spoke matter-of-factly, with no more caution than he'd give a passing comment on the weather. Faith appreciated it more than she could express, and the words themselves were like a mirror, showing her what lay deep within herself. A truth she hadn't yet put into words.
"You're kinda wise," she said instead of any of that.
Bobby snorted once. "I should hope so. It's the only damn upside to gettin' old."
"And how old are you, Bobby?"
Bobby cast her a side-eye and didn't deign to respond. Faith chuckled and abandoned the chilli only long enough to go pour herself some eggnog before returning to her task with a renewed enthusiasm.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a daze of good company, food and eggnog. Toby insisted on having It's a Wonderful Life on the TV in the background while they played a few rounds of cards as the sky turned dark. The fire did its best to heat the house, but its bones were getting older with every year that passed and Faith eventually found herself shivering as she won another hand.
Bobby disappeared, returning after a minute with a sweater in hand. He handed it to her with a grunt, and Faith unfolded it to find it was a gaudy Christmas sweater, knitted in green wool with the image of a reindeer wearing reading glasses and a Santa hat on the front.
"Bobby, sometimes I worry about you," said Toby, already dealing out another hand.
Faith smirked and pulled the sweater over her head. "I, for one, think you have impeccable taste," she countered, running her hands down the front of the truly hideous sweater. "But when did you last wear this thing? It smells like mothballs."
Bobby grunted something as he picked up his new hand of cards and assessed them shrewdly. Toby leant forwards and cupped a hand around his ear. "What was that?" he asked, likely imagining the answer would be embarrassing.
"You deaf? I said it was my wife's," Bobby snapped.
Neither Faith nor Toby knew how to respond to that, falling silent and looking at one another, at a loss. Bobby looked up from his cards with a scowl, and Toby awkwardly cleared his throat. "Losing someone – it isn't easy. Bobby, if you ever need to talk…"
"What is this, group therapy?" Bobby asked. Clearly, he wasn't interested in sympathy – not even if it was actually empathy in disguise. "Deal yourself in already."
Toby shrugged helplessly and did as he was told. Faith smirked to herself and took a deep sip of eggnog.
They were just doing the last preparations for dinner when there came a knock at the front door. Bobby was pulling the chicken out of the oven and Toby was setting the table. "I've got it," Faith said, abandoning the chilli she was plating up and moving to the door.
She wasn't sure who to expect – maybe one of Bobby's well-meaning neighbours, or a hunter looking for trouble – but instead when she pulled open the front door, it was to find two very familiar, hulking figures stood in the dim light of the porch light.
Faith stared at Sam and Dean, and they stared back at her without saying a word. For a long stretch, nobody seemed to know what to say. Finally, Dean broke the tense quiet.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked, frowning at her sweater like it was a riddle.
Faith glanced down at her own body, confused. "A Christmas sweater."
Dean looked exasperated. "Why?"
"…Because it's Christmas Eve?"
Both brothers looked surprised. "No kidding," Dean smirked. He turned to look at Sam, clapping him soundly on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes and didn't bother to respond.
"Faith!" Bobby called through the house. "Who is it?"
Faith leant backwards to yell back into the kitchen, "The Winchester boys!"
A beat filled with surprise, then, "Well, bring them in! You're letting all the warm air out!"
Dean's smile was utterly innocent, whereas Sam just looked apologetic. Faith rolled her eyes and opened the door wider to let them through. Dean walked in first, but Faith ignored him, drawing Sam into an embrace and kissing him genially on the cheek.
"Happy Christmas Eve, Sam," she said warmly.
"You too, Faith," he replied, looking tired and worn, but ultimately okay. She tactfully didn't mention the dark rings around his eyes, or the fact it looked like he hadn't washed his hair in a month or more.
"Hey," said Dean, sounding particularly annoyed, "where's my kiss?"
Faith let the door slam shut, sealing them all inside the warm house. "Did you check up your ass?"
Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Good to see you too, sweetheart," he said, a smug smile playing at his mouth, and Faith had to wonder if he enjoyed their verbal sparring almost as much as she did. Maybe these games weren't just fun for her, in the end. Perhaps he liked getting under her skin just as much as she liked getting under his.
"Call me 'sweetheart' again and you're going to wake up a eunuch," she told him sweetly.
Dean slashed a smirk. "You say the nicest things."
"Would you quit yammering out there and come have dinner already?!" Bobby's voice shouted back at them from the kitchen.
Faith rolled her eyes and cast the two brothers a glance. "Staying for dinner?" she asked Dean tersely.
"You got room for two more?" he asked, a frown knitting his brow, as if genuinely worried he might be intruding. Which was puzzling, because before now she hadn't taken Dean for the overly considerate type.
"Sure," she said, brow furrowed just the same. "But only if you both go wash up first."
Dean scoffed. "Come on, it's not that bad-"
"You smell like a dumpster," she deadpanned.
Now he looked affronted. Sam shook his head and gave a tired smile. "There may have been some dumpster-diving involved in our last job," he admitted. "We made a bit of noise in town with this one – had to clear out fast, so we didn't stop to shower."
"Well, you're stopping now," said Bobby, appearing in the doorway and bringing Dean into a brief but genuine hug, followed quickly by Sam. "Go shower, but be quick about it. Food's getting cold."
"Yes sir," said Dean obediently, tossing a lazy grin at Faith who just made a face and walked past him into the kitchen. Toby was already setting out two extra places at the table, and Faith took her seat, picking up the beer she'd switched to from eggnog sometime before dinner.
"Who forgets Christmas?" she wondered as he retook his seat opposite her.
Toby shook his head and picked up his own beer. "Hunters," he muttered, as though he were somehow exempt from the grouping.
"You realise you're a hunter too, right?"
Toby grimaced. "Don't remind me."
She was still laughing as Bobby walked back into the room. "Good thing we made enough to feed a small army," he said as he went to fiddle with the food set out before them.
"You didn't know they were coming?" Faith asked.
"No idea," he said, dipping his finger into a nearby saucepan and tasting the creation inside. "I'm glad they're here, though. I hate the thought of them spending Christmas in some seedy, pay-by-the-hour motel."
Annoying as Dean could be, Faith agreed. Sam and Dean had saved her in so many ways. She wouldn't have the life she had now – or any life at all, perhaps – without them. Faith wasn't sure she'd ever truly feel like she'd repaid that debt in full. She supposed time would tell. It always did.
It only took Sam and Dean ten minutes to take their turns in the shower and change into clean clothes. They reappeared smelling much better than before, and Bobby clapped his hands together, shooting to his feet to begin fetching things out of the oven where they were being kept warm. Toby stood to help and together they managed to get everything transferred onto the small kitchen table they shared. The brothers took seats on either side of the table, Sam next to Toby while Dean snatched the seat beside Faith with one of his patented shit-eating grins.
She ignored him with all the dignity she could muster.
"Well," said Bobby once all the food was set down and they were ready to eat, "anyone wanna say a few words?"
Faith and Toby shrugged, but Dean looked confused. "Why?"
"It's Christmas," Faith reminded him for the second time in under an hour.
"Yeah, Christmas – not a wake," he argued.
Her eyes grew narrowed. "You're a real Scrooge, you know that?"
His grin grew blinding, his sparkling green eyes telling her that he was enjoying this far, far too much. "Yup, Ebenezer Scrooge. That's me, sweetheart," he said proudly, the pet name grinding at her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
Faith's fingers twitched towards the knife beside her plate, but Toby kicked her subtly underneath the table and she fisted her hand with a huff. Dean's shit-eating grin told her he knew exactly how much she wanted to hit him, and he loved it. Stabbing might be off the table, but she didn't think that Toby would protest too much to a cussing-out, and was just opening her mouth to let Dean have it when Bobby's beer bottle shot up into the air.
"A toast," he said sternly, and all the scathing insults on her tongue melted away. Faith sighed, picking up her own beer and holding it up next to his. "Christmas might not be a very big holiday in a community like ours," he continued, glaring at Sam and Dean until they copied him and held up their beers in respect. "But I'm very glad to have you all here now. Merry Christmas."
"Ya filthy animal," added Dean just before they clinked their bottles together.
Faith couldn't help but snort in amusement, and Dean looked particularly pleased with himself as they all eagerly dug into their food.
Dinner was an easy, casual affair. Faith had thought that maybe the topic of hunting would take a backseat in light of the holiday, but instead it was centre-stage. She found she didn't mind very much, though. It was something they all shared, the thing that bound them together. She'd come to understand that, to a good hunter, hunting wasn't just a job. It was a way of life. One she was now firmly rooted in.
Sam was talking about their most recent case and Dean was interjecting every other sentence with corrections to the story, but Faith wasn't really listening. She was thinking, suddenly, about her life before meeting Sam and Dean, and about the nature of destiny.
She wasn't sure whether or not she did believe in it, but when she lined up all the facts, it became undeniably clear that she'd been heading down this path all along. Her mother was a hunter from a long line of hunters; her father's identity was fake – likely masking a deeper, darker secret, the likes of which she could barely consider; and Faith herself was somehow involved in a curse that involved a cult of demons from hell itself.
She was always going to end up on this path – whether Sam and Dean had unintentionally intervened or not. That fact was impossible to deny. But it was an even deeper truth that left her blood feeling cold in her veins.
She was glad for it.
She'd never fit in. Not really. At school she'd been the outcast, and that hadn't changed when she'd dropped out. Her life had always felt like an afterthought, as if some cruel god had made her, but forgotten to give her a place in this world. Instead, they had just dropped her onto the Earth and forced her to find her own way, her own people, her own place to belong.
And she'd never quite managed it. Not until now.
For a moment – just one, terrible, selfish moment – she felt grateful that Nate was gone. Because as much as she'd loved him, in hindsight, hadn't he been holding her back? Tying her to a world that had nothing to offer her? She finally had a place to belong, but she knew she'd never have found it if not for Nate's death. She'd never have left him of her own volition; but thankfully, the choice had been taken out of her hands.
And now she was happy – happier – without him.
The thought was like a railroad spike to the heart, and her breath hitched, catching painfully in her chest. She stared at nothing, head suddenly empty of thoughts, just lost in the echoing agony of her own callousness.
She was stunned out of her stupor by the gentle press of a hand to her knee underneath the table. She jolted and turned deer-in-the-headlights eyes onto Dean, who met her stare, the only other person at the table not enthralled in Sam's story. The only other person who had seemed to notice the subtle change in her demeanour.
"You good, Bueller?" he asked from the corner of his mouth, his expression conveying annoyance while his hand on her knee spoke of nothing but gentleness and concern.
Dean was one giant, irritating conundrum.
"I'm fine," she rasped, grabbing her beer and throwing back several mouthfuls at once.
When she glanced at Dean again, he looked the opposite of convinced. She forced her lips into something vaguely resembling a smile.
"Get your hand off my knee before I take it off your arm," she warned him sweetly.
Dean's eyes popped, as if surprised, and it occurred to her that he hadn't realised he was still touching her. But he covered his fumble by snorting and smoothly sliding his warm hand off her leg. "Prude," he muttered scathingly.
"Dick," she bit back.
"Would you two stop flirting for two seconds?" Toby asked loudly. Faith and Dean's attention snapped to him, both wide-eyed and enraged. Toby looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Thank you," he said now that they were quiet. "Sam's trying to tell us a story. Don't be rude."
Faith narrowed her eyes at him. "You're an asshole."
Toby held up his beer in acknowledgement and turned his attention back to Sam, who was smirking now as he spoke.
Faith had to admit, despite the less-than-kind tactics, she was certainly shocked out of her own stupor. The sharp pain had melted to a dull ache, but it was one Faith could live with. She forced herself to refocus on the conversation, locking away all thoughts of Nate where she couldn't stumble across them accidentally.
Dinner ended without a fuss. Dean surprised her by insisting he and Sam take care of the clean-up, seeing as the three of them had cooked in the first place. Bobby gladly left them to it, wandering into the study to flip on some old Christmas movie playing on TV. Toby grabbed another glass of eggnog and joined him.
However, the movie couldn't hold their attention long, and soon enough they were talking about Garth's latest case. Faith wanted to feel interested, but really, she just felt like she needed a few minutes alone, so while they were talking and the brothers were squabbling over who got to wash versus dry, Faith snuck out the back door and into the solitude of the salvage yard.
The night was clear, the sky a deep black set with stars like diamonds high above, the moon a glowing orb lighting the night up silver. The air was cold, frosty enough that her breath turned to mist as she exhaled, and the wool of the sweater wasn't quite enough to keep out the chill.
But Faith didn't care. She'd survived worse than a few minutes spent in a frosty winter's night.
Nearby was the shell of a car, picked clean of everything useful it had to give. All her training with Toby had paid off, and it was almost too easy to swing herself up onto its roof. She sat there and let the cold settle around her. She curled her arms around her knees and kept her eyes fixed on the sky. And if a few tears fell in the silence, well, nobody but the stars would ever know.
Until, that is, a heavy weight was dropped onto her shoulders. Faith gasped and shot around to face her attacker, only to realise it was just Dean, draping his leather jacket over her shoulders. Without saying a word, he hopped up onto the shell of the car beside her and offered up a glass of eggnog.
She wiped hastily at the evidence of her tears turning to frost on her cheeks. "What are you doing out here?" she demanded hotly, snatching the glass of eggnog like it was a toy that was rightfully hers.
"Came to make sure you weren't getting murdered," he shrugged.
"My hero," she drawled, hating that her voice came out in a rasp. To her further surprise, Dean said nothing, taking back the eggnog and sipping it casually. The silence stretched, and with every passing heartbeat she expected him to talk, but he didn't, and eventually she stopped waiting, turning her attention back to the stars.
"It's okay to miss them, you know?" Dean spoke suddenly enough that her heart leapt, and she reached for the eggnog in an attempt to cover her flinch.
"Miss who?"
"Whoever you're mourning."
Faith went rigid, her eyes narrowed. He looked back at her, frustratingly calm, and Faith absolutely did not notice what the moonlight did to his already stupidly-handsome features. "You don't know me," she rasped, taking another sip of eggnog and letting the generous bourbon warm her from the inside out.
He took it in stride. "Maybe not," he allowed. "But I know what a person in pain looks like. We've all lost people, sweetheart."
Faith said nothing, glaring up at the sky like it had wronged her.
"It's that guy, isn't it?" Dean hesitated, searching for the name. "Nate, right?"
Faith swallowed another mouthful of eggnog, her jaw aching from how tightly it was clenched. When she spoke, she expected her voice to come out angry, but instead she just sounded strained, like someone had hold of her vocal cords. "Yeah."
"Something reminded you of him? Tonight, at the table?"
Her laugh was bitter. "Something reminds me of him every goddamn day."
Dean said nothing and she handed back the eggnog. The glass was emptying quickly, but she didn't feel like going to get more. She wasn't as cold, now. Not with Dean's alcohol and Dean's jacket and Dean's body heat radiating from next to her, keeping her warm like the hearth of a fireplace.
"You know what I thought tonight, at dinner?" she said suddenly, surprising even herself. Dean said nothing – he only tilted his head away from the stars, giving her his full attention. "I thought that I was glad Nate was dead. I didn't mean to, but the thought just appeared. And I wish I could say there was some part of me that didn't think it was true, but…"
She didn't need to finish the thought; she just pressed her forehead against her knees and focused on breathing in the frosty night air. It hurt when it brushed against her warm lungs, but she relished the pain, some part of her believing she deserved it.
"Was…did he hit you? Nate?" Dean asked quietly, perhaps the timidest she'd ever heard him.
Her head flew up like he'd shouted it. "What? No!"
Dean held up his hands in surrender. "I'm just trying to figure out the situation, Bueller. Relax."
Faith reined in her glare, realising she might have been a bit hasty in her reaction. She sighed and Dean handed over what remained of the eggnog without another word. Faith took it, throwing it back in one go before blurting, "Hunting's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Dean didn't seem to know how to respond to that.
"It sounds sad, I know," she told him, setting the empty glass down on the rusted roof of the car with a click. "But I didn't … I didn't fit anywhere, before," she confessed, knowing all the bourbon and beer was going to her head, but for the moment, wholly uncaring. "Ridiculous, that I'd fit in amongst a community that's mostly middle-aged men with beer-guts and trucker hats, but them's the breaks, I guess."
Dean still said nothing, and, in her tipsiness, she found the silence uncomfortable, desperate to fill it, even if that meant baring a part of her that she'd never intended to show anyone – let alone Dean Winchester.
"I just – I know it's a shitty sort of life. Living out of a duffel and spending all your time on a job that gives you no thanks, and certainly no pay. But I really just – it's a part of me, y'know? I didn't fit in, and now I do. I was meant for this all along. So, when I thought that I was glad that Nate was dead, it wasn't so much in a 'hurray, he's gone' sort of a way as it was in a 'now there's nothing holding me back' sort of way. Does that … make sense?"
Dean was frowning, but she wasn't sure why. "Not really," he said callously, but there was a subtle glint to his forest eyes that made her think maybe he wasn't being entirely truthful. Faith ignored him anyway.
"The catch-22 is that there might not be anything physical holding me back, no person waiting for me to come home – but he's still here," she said, tapping at her breastbone. The world was beginning to go a little bit blurry at the edges. "I've tried to move on, but I just wake up the next morning, look at their face, and my first thought is 'that's not Nate'. Pathetic, I know," she added hastily, before Dean could say it for her.
Dean sighed. "It's not pathetic. I get it – I really do. All I can say is that things do get better. Well," he paused and chuckled darkly, "maybe 'better' isn't the right word. But they get easier. You won't wake up thinking that forever. I promise."
Faith sniffled and nodded her head. Dean fell silent once again and the realisation of all she'd just blurted hit her. Why did it have to be Dean who had come out here when she was teary and vulnerable? Why couldn't it have been Toby, or Sam? Or hell, even Bobby?
"You're gonna use this against me once I'm sober, aren't you?" she wondered aloud, already cringing at the thought.
To her surprise – again, so many surprises from him in the span of a single night – Dean just smiled grimly and shook his head. "No," he assured her quietly. "Not this. I'm not that much of a jerk."
"I beg to differ," she muttered before she could stop herself.
This time it was relief she felt as he chuckled, the sound low and husky and entirely too attractive. She was suddenly acutely aware of how lonely and cold she felt, and how warm Dean was in every possible way. It would be so easy to lose herself in him for a night.
But it wouldn't just be a night. Because she'd have to face him again soon enough, on a hunt or at a social gathering, and things would be weird, and she would regret it – they both would. It would be a mistake. So, before she could think with any brain other than the one in her head, Faith slid off the top of the car with as much grace as possible.
Which wasn't very much, considering how many drinks she'd had since getting to Bobby's earlier in the day. Her feet hit the frozen ground at an angle and she began to tilt, but Dean was there as if by magic, righting her before she hit the dirt.
"Jesus, how drunk are you?" he wondered.
And just like that the ceasefire was over with. Faith conjured the full power of her ire and glowered up at him hotly. Dean had the gall to smirk.
"You're kind of like an angry kitten right now, you know that?" he teased. "About as scary as one, too."
She scowled. "I'm going to kill you and everything you love."
Dean rolled his eyes and turned away. "Come on," he said lightly. "I wanna play a few hands of poker before we turn in for the night. There's still plenty of time to take you for all you're worth."
They did play poker, the five of them. They only played a few hands before Bobby tapped out, pulling the Old Man Card and disappearing up to bed. Sam was next, followed closely by Toby, and Faith didn't particularly want to spend any more time alone with Dean, so she said goodnight and wandered up to take a long, luxurious shower before heading to bed. She was asleep before her head even hit the pillow.
The next morning was Christmas day. They didn't have much in the way of plans, but Faith had to admit that she was looking forwards to a day of rest and relaxation – only when she dressed and creaked her way down the stairs to the kitchen, Toby was already stood in the doorway, a mug of coffee held out towards her and his packed duffel bag by his feet.
She knew immediately that she wasn't going to get a day of rest.
"No," she said anyway.
"Got a call from an old mate of mine, Cesar Cuevas," Toby told her as she took the mug from him and drank deeply, uncaring that it scalded her tongue. "Got wind of a job down in Flagstaff, Arizona."
"Toby, it's Christmas day."
"Is it really?" he asked, utterly sarcastic. "Well then, that's good. The roads will be nice and empty on the drive."
Sam appeared then, a mug of coffee in his own hand, still wearing rumpled pyjamas, his hair uncombed. "You two catch a job?"
Faith met Toby's eyes, telling him with those alone that she unhappy. Toby ignored her. "Flagstaff," he told Sam. "Possible demonic possession. Might even give us a lead on the whole Cult situation," he added meaningfully in Faith's direction.
She held up her free hand. "Okay," she grumbled. "Message received. I'll go pack."
Less than a half hour later she was dressed, packed and ready to go. Bobby stopped her at the door and handed her something wrapped in smudged old newspaper.
"What's this?" she asked in confusion.
"Bit of a tradition for this time of year," he replied sarcastically. "S'called Christmas, ya might have heard of it. Some people – nice people – like ta' exchange gifts with their friends and family."
She frowned. "But I didn't get you anything."
"Would you just open the damn gift?"
Faith pulled the newspaper from the cylindrical-shaped object to reveal it as a tube of metal polish.
"For your knives," he told her. "Gotta keep 'em in good order. Even works on guns, too, if you wanna keep 'em looking snazzy."
Faith smiled, shook her head in exasperation, then pulled the reluctant old man into a hug. "Thanks, Bobby."
"S'nothing," he waved her off, though his cheeks looked just a little bit pink. "Drive safe – call me if you need a hand and I'll see what I can do."
While Toby said his goodbyes to Bobby, Faith turned to Sam and Dean, who were both still stood in their pyjamas, mugs of steaming coffee in hand. "Nice seeing you boys," she said lazily, looking resolutely at Sam and trying not to let her thoughts stray to Dean or drunken secrets muttered in the glow of the midnight moon.
"You have a good Christmas?" Sam asked, leaning down to pull her into a slightly-less reluctant hug than Bobby.
"I did. You?"
Sam pulled back and shrugged. "Never been a fan of Christmas, myself."
Even Dean looked surprised at that. "Seriously?"
Sam shrugged and didn't respond. Faith turned to Dean with raised brows. "Well, I guess I'll catch you later," Faith told him, the words seeming somehow lacking.
Dean abandoned his eyeing of Sam to pin her with one of those lazy, crooked smirks. "Not if I catch you first, sweetheart."
She raised a brow, unimpressed. "Oh yes, very smooth."
"I'm better with women I actually like," he replied.
She stared back, deadpan. "Ouch."
Sam slapped his brother upside the head and Dean looked genuinely confused as to why. Considering her goodbyes complete, Faith turned away and strode down the stairs to Toby's car. She slipped into the passenger seat then waved half-heartedly at the guys as Toby took them out of Bobby's property and onto the main road.
It took them two days to get to Flagstaff.
Thankfully, Bobby had managed to find time to re-gas the car, so the heating was wonderful as they drove. Toby did most of the miles (he liked to drive places, Faith liked to be driven places; it really was a perfect match) as they made their way south-west.
They stopped twice for gas, and both times Faith all but cleaned out the stations of their long-life snacks and drinks. They didn't get caught, and once again Toby marvelled at her natural ability for petty theft. It was nice to be appreciated, even if it was for a misdemeanour.
"Live on the streets long enough, you'll be a natural, too," she said. He ignored her and opened a new packet of beef jerky.
They arrived in Flagstaff and got themselves situated at a small Inn only a few miles outside the main city, in the area where the demonic signs had been occurring. Freak weather anomalies and several local deaths with sulphur found at the crime scenes were their only two clues, but for them, it was enough.
After washing up at the Inn, they each donned a suit and went into town with their FBI badges in hand. Their first stop was the local police station to talk to the sheriff about the crime. When they arrived, the young man at the front desk hastily put down the donut he'd been eating, wiping his mouth but missing most of the powdered sugar anyway.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Faith and Toby had their badges held up. "Agents Lewis and Fitzgerald. We're here to see the Sheriff."
The boy behind the counter – name tag reading 'Jake' – sat up straight and looked mildly nervous. "Agents," he said, turning his attention to the computer in front of him. "Um, I wasn't aware you had an appointment."
"We don't," Toby replied frostily. The boy looked uncomfortable, so Faith offered him a smile. Clearly, she'd been designated Good Cop for the day.
"We're here about the Clearwater murder," she told him with that false smile locked into place. She batted her eyelashes for effect and the boy's cheeks went pink. "Could you let Sheriff Kennedy know we're here to see him?"
"Er – yes, ma'am, right away," said the boy, standing clumsily and disappearing through the door behind him. He was gone barely thirty seconds before he stumbled back into view with wide eyes and a pinched mouth. "Sheriff Kennedy says to go on through."
"Thanks, Jake," Faith said sweetly, throwing in a proper smile for his efforts. His cheeks went a darker shade of pink, and Toby snorted under his breath as they walked through the door into the main area of the sheriff's station.
"You're incorrigible," he muttered.
"And you're a buzzkill," she muttered right back.
Toby elected to ignore her.
The sheriff was standing in the doorway to his office at the back of the room, a nervous look on his face. The moment they were close enough, he thrust out a hand. "Agents," he said, shaking Toby's hand with nervous enthusiasm. "I'm Sheriff Kennedy. I've gotta to admit, it isn't often we get FBI round these parts."
"Agents Lewis and Fitzgerald," said Toby flatly, extracting his hand from the sheriff's grip. "Hopefully we won't be in your way long, Sheriff. We're just here to follow up on the recent Clearwater murder."
Kennedy held out a hand to Faith, who took it and shook once before letting go. "Why would the Feds be interested in the Clearwater murder?" he asked, reaching up to scratch at his thinning hair. "We've already got a suspect in custody who looks good for it. There's nothing more to do."
"The pattern of the kill looks similar to several other murders across the country over the last few years," Toby lied point-blank. The Sheriff's eyebrows climbed his shiny forehead. "We weren't aware you had a suspect in custody," he added, and that part was true.
The Sheriff gestured for them to follow him into his office, a small room filled with photos of him posing with freshly-caught fish.
"We have security footage of a local kid, Ellis McDonnell, leaving the crime scene only a few minutes after the official time of death," he explained as they all settled into their respective chairs. "We also found a bloody knife on his possession at the time of arrest. CSI are still running the DNA – it's gonna take another few hours to know for sure if it's the victim's – but I can't imagine it's a coincidence."
"Of course," said Toby, pulling out his little notepad and making notes as he spoke. "And where's McDonnell now?"
The Sheriff hesitated. "Thing is, kid's got a history of mental illness," he began steadily. "Been in and out of the local nuthouse since he was a pre-teen. Because of his background, Judge Crane ruled he be kept in St. Stokes until we get the evidence to pin him for it – but even then, he'll likely take an insanity plea."
Toby was still scribbling in his ridiculous book, so Faith nodded and said. "Right. Well, given the connection to the other murders, we'd like to have a word with him."
She was expecting the Sheriff to bend over backwards to accommodate them – he just seemed the brown-noser type – but he surprised her by hesitating.
"Sheriff?" she asked, raising a brow, staring back coolly.
"I dunno if it'll be worth it," he said uncomfortably.
"What do you mean?" asked Toby.
"Well, I don't pretend to be an expert, but the kid's definitely gone off the rails," said the Sheriff.
A beat. "Could you be more specific?"
The Sheriff stood to his feet, turning to root around in a nearby filing cabinet until finally he pulled free a thin manilla folder. Pushing the drawer shut with his hip, he handed Faith the file. She took it with a perfunctory smile.
Cracking it open, she saw it was the file on the Clearwater murder, along with a brief medical history and recent psych report on Ellis McDonnell.
"Kid's got schizophrenia," the Sheriff said plainly as Faith began to sift through the pages of the report. "He's kinda known as the town nut-job. Had a rough go of it at school. He's a bit of a trouble-maker, but from what I can tell, it's all been motivated by his illness. Some graffiti charges, one unarmed robbery, a few cases of theft. Nothing too worrying – but with this murder – well, he's escalated. I went to arrest him myself. Something was…different. Like something in him had changed; snapped like a glow stick."
Faith looked up from the list of medications McDonnell was currently taking. "Different how?"
"Well…" the Sheriff didn't seem to know how to explain it, which only confirmed their demonic possession theory.
"He's still at" – Faith quickly glanced at the name of the mental institution McDonnell was being held in – "St. Stokes?"
"Yes ma'am," the Sheriff nodded. "He's heavily medicated; I doubt you'll get anything from him."
"Well, it's our job to try," said Toby. "Is there anything else you think we should know?"
"No, that's about it," said the Sheriff. He looked disturbed, as if just talking about McDonnell set his skin crawling. "I guess I'll just grab my coat and we can head out," he added reluctantly, climbing to his feet once again.
Toby held up a hand. "That won't be necessary, Sheriff. We can find our own way."
The Sheriff didn't do a very good job of covering his relief. "All right," he agreed all-too easily. He paused, then added, "Do you think the Bureau will want to take him into their custody?"
"At this point we're unsure," said Toby professionally. "We'll have to see what he says in conjunction with the other murders."
"Sure," the Sheriff nodded.
Toby stood swiftly to his feet, and Faith followed his lead. "Mind if we hold onto the file?" she asked the Sheriff, who nodded his head, still just looking relieved that he didn't have to go see McDonnell in person.
"Let me know if you need anything else," he said in farewell.
"Will do," Toby nodded once. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Back out in the chill of the winter's day, Faith buttoned her blazer and gladly slipped back into the warmth of Toby's car. "A history of schizophrenia," she murmured, fiddling with the heat while Toby started the engine. "Why would a demon possess McDonnell if they knew he had such a history?"
"Maybe it didn't know," Toby shrugged.
"Maybe," she murmured, unconvinced.
St. Stokes was a large, cold building that looked more like a prison than a hospital. Faith tried to hold back a shudder as she passed into the chill of the lobby. It felt almost colder inside than it did outside, and she pulled her dark blazer tighter across her torso.
The Sheriff had called ahead, and the receptionist – an older woman wearing a truly hideous shade of orange lipstick – was quick to wave them out of the lobby. A doctor appeared in the doorway, also older, with grey hair and a set of goggle-glasses. He introduced himself as Dr. Hodge and together they left the nervous-looking receptionist and began to make their way deeper into the labyrinthine building.
"What can you tell us about McDonnell, Doctor?" Toby asked as he pulled free his notepad and pencil. Faith ignored him and focused on the doctor.
"Ellis has been in and out of this place since he was twelve. The schizophrenia is hereditary – his mother suffered much the same. He experiences intense delusions, some of which convince him to commit crimes. However, until now, he's never been violent. He's never expressed a wish for violence, or the harm of others. To be honest, Agents, it doesn't make sense. He's also not talking, so I'm having a hard time understanding what's changed."
"Is he catatonic?" Faith asked quietly. Somewhere further down the hallway, someone had begun to scream, banging hard on their door like they thought they could break out with their bare hands. A small group of orderlies hustled in the direction of the noise. Faith tried not to let the scene haunt her.
"No, just unwilling to speak," said Hodge just as quietly. He looked troubled. "I've been Ellis' doctor for over twelve years now. I'm incredibly familiar with him, with his case. I have to admit, none of this fits. There must have been some trigger, something that changed how he processes the impulses brought on by his illness. I'm afraid, as of now, I can't offer much insight – if any – into the transformative state of his condition."
"That's okay, Doctor," said Faith respectfully. "We understand. We just need to speak with him ourselves, try and get what we can out of him."
"I doubt you'll have much luck."
Toby shrugged. "It's procedure."
They arrived outside a nondescript door. There was nothing at all to mark it as different to any of the others, except for the number 27 written in black on the wall beside the door. It also felt different to the others, darker somehow, in an indistinct sort of way that Faith had come to associate with demons and demonic possession.
The doctor used a card hung from around his neck to unlock the door, and it opened slowly inward to reveal a spacious room with little furniture and no natural light. Across the space was a bed, and strapped to it, a boy in his late teens with light brown hair and a face Faith might have called sweet, had she not known what lay beneath.
He looked thin and emaciated, like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Faith couldn't help the stab of concern she felt for the real Ellis, the one trapped inside his own mind, made prisoner by the demon using his body as a meat suit.
"Are you feeding him?" she asked sharply.
"He won't eat," the doctor said gravely. "We're giving it another twenty-four hours, and then we're going to sedate him and insert a nasogastric tube. At least that way he'll get the nutrition his body needs, even if he refuses to actually eat."
"He's not sedated now?" Toby checked.
"No," said the doctor, seeming casual enough but never turning his back to the boy, like some part of him knew how dangerous he was. "He's awake."
"Great," said Toby woodenly. "If you'll just step out of the room, Doctor, my partner and I need to have a discussion with Mr. McDonnell—"
"Er – I really should be present—"
Toby went so far as to flash his badge again in case the doctor had forgotten who they were pretending to be. "I'm afraid the nature of this investigation is sensitive," Toby said. "If you'd just wait out in the hall, we should only take a few minutes of Mr. McDonnell's time."
The doctor left with his tail between his legs, and Faith shut the door behind him, the sound of the screaming from down the hall turning muffled enough that it was easier to ignore. The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out the natural light and leaving only the bright fluorescents, making everything seem stark and bloodless.
"Mr. McDonnell?" said Toby, running a hand down the length of his blue tie, crossing the room in long strides. "My name's Agent Fitzgerald, this is my partner, Agent Lewis. We're with the FBI. Do you know what that means?"
A long moment of silence, then slowly, the boy's head turned to face them. His eyes blinked open to reveal no white, or blue, or brown – just pitch-black onyx from one corner to the other. A sharklike smile spread across his face, exposing too many teeth for any one person.
"Hmmm," it purred, sniffing the air loudly before singing, "I smell the Cursed One."
Faith's heart gave a loud thump in her chest, so heavy that it hurt, her blood turned to sludge. She pressed a hand over the offending organ, and the demon's onyx eyes followed the movement. Faith's skin crawled like its gaze left a film.
"Okay," said Toby, readjusting his attack in an instant. "So, you're not Ellis McDonnell."
That toothy, sharklike grin stretched impossibly wider. "No."
"Who are you?"
The demon turned its grin back onto the ceiling, as though it had gotten its fill of staring at Faith. "My name isn't important," the demon said, almost lazy. Like they had all the time in the world.
"Okay," said Toby again in an amiable voice, as though he was at a used car lot, trying to bargain for a better price. "Then what is important?"
It was still staring up at the ceiling, and Faith couldn't help but think it looked far too pleased with itself.
"You planned this," she said, the words slipping free before she could stop herself. Toby turned just enough to look at her while keeping one eye on the demon. "I – I don't know how, but it wanted us here."
The demon's smile grew another inch. "I have a message for you."
Toby went still. "You've been killing people just to get our attention?"
The demon looked at them again, peering at Toby a long moment before rolling its eyes and nodding its head at Faith. "I've been killing people to get her attention," it drawled. "You're just the chauffeur."
Toby's grip tightened on the pencil he was using to write notes. "You realise we're going to exorcise you."
"Oh yes."
Toby didn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Faith stepped forwards. "What's the message?"
The demon began to laugh. The sound was enough to make Faith's skin itch like a million ants were crawling over every inch of her. The hair on her arms stood on end, and the back of her neck prickled unpleasantly. She ground her teeth together and ignored the shudder that threatened her.
"The message," Faith snapped, one hand drifting to the gun at her waist.
The demon stopped its chilling laugh with a cough, shaking its head on its thin pillow. "You can't kill me in here," it chuckled. "And I'd go so far as to say you can't exorcise me in here, either. Too noisy, too messy."
"What do you propose?" Toby ground out.
It shrugged. "Let's take this party elsewhere."
"You want us to break you out?" Faith laughed once, incredulous.
"Well, you are federal agents, aren't you?" it simpered. "Should be easy enough."
"Go to Hell."
The sharklike grin was back. "All in good time."
Faith turned to Toby, who was stroking a hand down the length of his beard, lost in thought. "Toby, you can't be seriously considering this."
"It wanted us here badly enough to kill for it," he said slowly. "And it has a message for us. It could be important."
"Or it could be a trap!"
Toby stood up, pacing across the space between them and lowering his voice so the next part was just between the two of them. "What are our options, Faith? We can't exorcise it here. We can't kill the kid. We can't just do nothing. At least if we do what it asks, we might learn something." Faith wasn't convinced, and Toby sighed. "We'll take every precaution."
"You say that now, Toby," she hissed back, "but then it'll get loose, and you – or me – will get dead. Then where will we be, huh? It isn't worth the risk."
"Okay," he said simply. "What's your better idea?"
Faith opened her mouth; nothing came out.
"That's what I thought," he said, spinning on his heel and marching to the door. He wrenched it open, leaning out into the hall where the doctor whose name Faith hadn't bothered to learn was still waiting. "After conferring with our superiors, it's been decided that my partner and I are going to move Mr. McDonnell to a facility that's more equipped to handle his particular requirements. This is my boss' card, feel free to call this number if you have any questions."
Over Toby's shoulder, the doctor looked gobsmacked.
"Excuse me, nurse?" Toby stopped a nurse in her tracks. "Could you send some orderlies over to get this patient ready to be moved to another facility? It's quite urgent."
"Right away," she said, then scurried obediently away.
The doctor still looked as shocked as if Toby had backhanded him clean across the face. "If you put together a list of Mr. McDonnell's medications, I'm sure the doctors at the Bureau's facility would be appreciative. The fax number is on that same business card I gave you."
"Agent Fitzgerald," spluttered the doctor. "You can't – you can't just come in here and – and take my patient! Ellis has been under my care more than twelve years now!"
"I understand," said Toby sympathetically. He kept talking, but whatever he said, Faith didn't hear, because the orderlies came in then, and she was too distracted watching the demon for any signs that it was about to snap and attack the men.
Thankfully for everyone involved, the demon seemed to be on its best behaviour. It allowed them to unbuckle its wrists from the bed straps, then strap them together again with a set of felt cuffs that he wouldn't be able to hurt himself with, but which would allow him to be moved. The demon's true eyes were hidden from sight, in their place a set of pretty green eyes that reminded her far too much of Dean. At one point it was too much, and she had to look away, fingers curling anxiously near the grip of her handgun.
By the time the orderlies were marching the demon out into the hall, Toby was stood calmly aside while the doctor raged at someone on his phone. Faith couldn't hear the other end of the call, but it was safe enough to assume it was Bobby he was arguing with, the old hunter posing as head of the FBI – as he was wont to do. Faith wished the doctor luck, but that wasn't an argument he'd be winning anytime soon.
"Come on, Ellis," said Toby in a cheerful voice that Faith honestly thought should have won him a goddamn Oscar. "Let's get you to the car. We'll be heading straight to the airport. You ever been on a plane? We've got first-class tickets to Washington."
Nobody tried to stop them. It was honestly far too easy. Were the circumstances different, Faith might have had time to be appalled by how simple it was to kidnap this boy – not only a child, but a very likely suspect in a pending murder investigation – from a guarded mental institution. The badge bought you a lot of things, and she decided to worry later about who might be using the powers it gave them for evil.
It was so simple; they might as well have been stealing candy from a goddamn baby. They marched that kid-stuffed-with-a-demon right out the front doors, took him to the parking lot, and the guards waved them goodbye as they put him carefully in the back of their car and they drove away.
The moment they were out of sight of the hospital, Faith had her gun free and aimed into the backseat, where the demon was stretched out as though lounged in the back of a limo.
"Relax," it drawled.
"Find somewhere secluded," Faith said to Toby through gritted teeth.
His only answer was the push the accelerator a little harder. He found a backroad that led to an old camping ground. Being the time of year that it was, nobody was using it, but the road was slated to keep it free of ice and travelled often enough to be kept clear.
They didn't speak as they drove. The demon looked relaxed, Toby wound with tension, and Faith just kept her eyes fixed on the demon, barrel of her gun aimed between its eyes. It wouldn't kill the demon, but it would waylay it long enough to get good exorcism going.
At some point, Toby finally decided they'd driven far enough and stopped the car. Faith kept the gun trained on the demon-boy as Toby got out of the car and grabbed the creature from Hell out of the backseat, grabbing him by the jacket the orderlies had slung over his sharp, wiry shoulders, and wrenching him out of the car.
Faith followed, the air frigid enough to make her tremble, watched as Toby grabbed a bag from his trunk, then together they walked the demon at gunpoint deeper into the woods, far off the trail where nobody would be able to hear him scream.
They walked until Faith's toes had gone numb, fingers frozen around the trigger of her gun. She was glad to be wearing a scarf, which kept the chill from her neck, but her teeth chattered all the same, so she clenched her jaw to keep the sound from echoing throughout the silent woods. Eventually they stopped walking in the middle of a small clearing. There was no grass, just icy dirt, and Toby pulled a can of red spray paint from the bag he'd grabbed from his trunk.
He quickly and efficiently began to paint a devil's trap on the tightly-packed dirt. The demon looked over at Faith with a smug look in its stolen eyes.
"Do we really need to bother with the gun?" the demon asked. "You keep pointing it at me, but it won't actually hurt me. All it'll really do is kill the innocent boy."
"Yeah, well, it makes me feel better," she muttered bitterly, not dropping the gun an inch.
He held up his bound hands as if in surrender. "Whatever makes you more comfortable, Child of War."
Toby stepped back from his devil's trap. "Get in," he snapped. Faith was relieved to hear his strong English accent back in full force. She didn't like it when he spoke with an American one, as he had to when posing as the FBI. It didn't suit him at all, and she'd come to find comfort in the way all his vowels sounded rounder and softer than other people's.
The demon marched into the devil's trap without a word.
"Hunters," it tutted fondly. "You're a paranoid bunch."
"You said you had a message to give us?" Toby demanded.
"I have a message to give her," it corrected primly, glaring at Toby.
Faith rolled her eyes. "I'm listening."
The demon stopped its glower at Toby long enough to turn that same, sharklike grin from before back onto Faith. Ellis' green eyes shuttered and disappeared, turning onyx again, making that toothy sneer all the more frightening. It wasn't hard to believe this thing came from Hell. Wasn't hard to believe that was where they were sending it back to, once all of this was over.
"I believe you're familiar with my superiors," it began, almost formal in its delivery. When Faith said nothing, its smile widened and it bowed slightly as it announced, with great pride, "I am a loyal agent of the Cult."
A beat of silence from her and Toby. "You're a part of the Hades Cult?" she finally asked, voice frosty.
The demon's proud, toothy beam twisted into something truly ugly, and full of seething rage. "That name is an abomination," it snarled. "Given to them in recent years by humans, it twists and bends everything they are. Although," it paused long enough to give a spine-itching chuckle, "given recent events, even you must admit the nickname is … ironic."
Faith wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but she didn't want to bring her ignorance to light.
"You said 'them'," she pointed out. Anger twisted its face once more. "Oh, so you're not a member. You're a lackey," she said, dark glee casting a shadow across her face.
"I'm a loyal agent of the Cult-"
"You're a servant. You're the muscle. Or," she pretended to gasp, "are you the arm candy?"
"You blaspheme, Child of War," it snarled.
"You're a goddamn demon," she reminded it lazily. "Grow a pair."
Toby shifted his weight, not obviously, but enough that it caught her attention and made Faith realise she was carrying on like an idiot. She didn't mean to get carried away. Sometimes when she got into a sparring match, it was hard to pump the breaks.
"You said you had a message?" Toby directed the words at the demon, which sneered like just Toby's voice offended it.
It turned its attention back on Faith as if Toby wasn't even there, and the words had been spoken by her, instead. "The message is this: the Cult have had centuries to claw their way up to the surface, even despite the curse hanging over them, a scourge through all these millennia."
"Wait," Faith interjected. "Centuries? My mother only sent them back to Hell twenty-five years ago."
That dangerous grin was back, one row seeming to splinter and multiply until it was just a mouth packed full to the brim with teeth. "Time moves differently down there," said the demon proudly. "Twenty-five years to you is roughly … three hundred to them."
Faith was stunned into silence. The demon was not.
"And they spent every minute of those three hundred years clawing their way back up to the surface, back up through the cracks in the dimensions themselves, their one and only goal to find you and spill every drop of blood in your pretty little body."
Faith continued to shake, but it wasn't just from the cold. Now, panic swelled in her throat, cutting off air and making her head feel fuzzy. Her fingertips tingled and her heart tried to escape through her sternum. But she did her best to let none of it show. She wouldn't give the demon – nor the Cult – the satisfaction.
"Why haven't they broken free?" she asked, relieved beyond measure when her voice came out steady. She arranged her expression into something pitying, letting her lip jut out in a pout. "Aren't they strong enough?"
The demon smiled serenely, unbothered by her mockery. "The plan is already in motion," it assured her. "All they need is a Devil's Gate to be opened, and luckily for them… Well," it waved a hand in the air, chuckling huskily. "I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."
Faith swallowed around a too-dry mouth. "This was your message? To warn me they're after me? How about you tell me something I don't already know?"
She blinked and the demon was at the edge of the devil's trap, hands pressed against the barrier like it were a pane of glass, a vicious snarl curling at its terrible mouth. "So cocky, Child of War," it hissed at her, eyes black and swirling with hatred. "That won't last long. The Cult want you scared, you see? They want you afraid. It'll only make victory that much sweeter."
Faith didn't want it to be working. She wanted to be stronger than them – wanted to be able to look this demon in the eye and say she wasn't afraid. But it wouldn't be true. Because with every day and every threat that passed, she only grew more and more terrified of the terrible fate that awaited her.
"Why do they want me at all?" Faith demanded, passed the point of embarrassment when her voice broke. "Why me? What the hell did I ever do to them?! My mother was the one who cursed them! Why should I have to pay for her mistake?!"
For a long few seconds, the demon was perfectly still. It stared at her, almost uncomprehending, then slowly that terrible smile began to spread across its loathsome face. "You don't know," it breathed, nearly giddy. If demons celebrated Christmas, it might as well have been Christmas bloody morning. "You have no idea, do you?"
It began to laugh maniacally, the sound echoing off the empty trees and dead shrubbery surrounding them. The sound was so jarring that what little wildlife remained awake for the winter stirred and hurried away, shuffling the underbrush and squawking off into the sky.
Toby stepped forwards and backhanded the demon across the face. It wasn't enough to wipe the amusement away entirely, but the uncontrollable hilarity eased, replaced by a rasping for air that was so close to human that Faith wanted to scream.
"Forgive me," said the demon, still chuckling, and Faith bit her tongue until she tasted blood. "We just never imagined that you wouldn't know…"
"Know what?" snapped Toby.
The demon only held up his hands, shook his head, and chuckled again.
Toby pulled out his gun, flicked off the safety, and held the barrel between its eyes. "Know. What?" he asked again, slow and deliberate. Faith felt a thrum of fear, and it wasn't for her partner's sake.
The demon just smiled. "All I'll tell you is this," it said, turning to stare at Faith, eyes as black as the space between stars, "the curse has nothing to do with your mother. It never did. It's only ever been about you. Since the beginning, it's been you. And now, the Devil's Gate it going to open, and the Cult are going to be free, and you're going to bleed."
"Why?" she demanded, at her wits' end. "Why tell me any of this? What was the point?!"
"Because this is only worth it if you're afraid," the demon rasped hungrily, eyes begging for her blood. "Which means you need to know it's coming. We want you trembling with terror, Child of War. We want you scared shitless!" It cackled again, demented as could be.
Faith realised she'd stopped breathing and forced herself to take a deep breath. She turned to look at Toby, who still gripped his gun too tightly for comfort.
"Send it to the pit," she muttered.
Toby didn't hesitate. Like a soldier obeying an officer's orders, he dropped his gun, grabbed his flask of holy water and began to recite an exorcism. Every time the water struck, the demon hissed and flinched, but it never once stopped smiling.
"You're doing me a favour!" it cried cheerfully over the top of the exorcism. "I've got a lot to report to the big guns, downstairs. Oh, they're going to be so pleased to hear what I have to tell them."
Faith stepped as close to the boundary of the devil's trap as she dared. "I'm going to kill every last one of you," she promised it. "And I'm going to enjoy it."
It kept on smiling. "Maybe," it shrugged. "I guess only time will tell, won't it?"
By then the exorcism began to take hold, and it dropped to its knees with a roaring scream that tore through the trees like thunder. Faith wrapped her arms around herself, but it was a poor attempt at comfort, doing nothing for the rattling ache deep within.
Toby continued on with his exorcism – it was one of the longer ones. Long, but thorough, he would tell her if she complained.
When it was over and the black smoke had poured out of Ellis into the earth, creating a large circle of dead land where nothing would grow for a great many years, the boy the demon had possessed slumped lifelessly to the ground.
Faith all but threw herself into the devil's trap, reaching over the boy and pressing her fingers to his neck, searching desperately for a pulse. She couldn't find one, but she kept searching, convincing herself that her hands were just too numb to feel it, and she just had to press a little harder, and he was just so cold…
Toby's hands wrapped around her shoulders, and he gently brought her up to her feet, taking care of the way she trembled from head to toe.
"Why did he – I mean, we didn't shoot him—" she stammered, leaning into Toby despite the lack of warmth. He was just as cold as she was; she might as well have been leaning up against a tree.
"Anything could have happened to his body before we got to him, Faith," Toby said gently. "And even if nothing did happen… Sometimes they just don't survive the process. It's never easy, and I'm sorry. It's just the way it is."
Faith pulled out of his embrace, pacing away from him, tangling her hands in her dark hair. For several long, frigid minutes, the two of them just stood in the dying light of the day beside the boy's cooling corpse. Faith focused on breathing steadily and trying to focus on something other than the crushing panic that threatened to turn her into a puddle.
Toby coped in his own, quiet way, and the sun dipped below the horizon.
Finally, she spoke. "What do we do with him?"
"We'll take him back to the car. Take him a few states over, find somewhere remote and burn the body."
"That doctor will look into his case," she warned. "He's not just gonna let this kid go. He'll have our descriptions ready for the FBI – the real FBI – when he inevitably turns to them for help."
Toby was nodding before she'd even finished speaking. "I know."
"What do we do?"
He sighed heavily, staring at the corpse at their feet with heavy eyes. "We cross that bridge when we come to it," he said with a note of finality.
Faith supposed he was right; there was nothing they could do about it now except run far, far away and just try to disappear into the crowd of planet earth.
"Come on," he sighed again. "We should go before it gets too dark."
As they carried the boy between them back to the car, Faith thought over the demon's warning. "What's a Devil's Gate, anyway?" she asked quietly when the car was finally in sight and her lungs felt like they were burning from the cold and the weight of the dead boy.
"Basically, a doorway to Hell," said Toby.
"So, you open it and—"
"And all the demons close enough to the surface have the red carpet rolled out on the path to earth."
"Shit," she huffed as they reached the car. Toby unlocked it, and they went about delicately putting the body in the trunk. "Well, where are they? These Gates?"
"I don't know. But they're rare."
"How rare?"
"Very rare."
"Well then, they should be easy enough to sniff out, right?"
Toby sighed for the third time in as many minutes. "So it would seem."
The body properly stowed, they climbed into the car and began to head back towards the main road. Faith focused on adjusting the heat until she didn't feel like her teeth were going to break from how hard they were chattering, while Toby brooded in the driver's seat.
"You know what we have to do, don't you?" she asked about twenty minutes into their drive, the interstate practically empty this time of night and so soon after Christmas. From here, it was a straight shot up north-east to Sioux Falls – their destination without even a discussion.
Toby tightened his grip on the wheel, and she took that as an invitation to continue.
"We have to find this Devil's Gate before anyone else does and destroy it before anyone can open it."
Toby shut his eyes just long enough for a final sigh. "Yeah," he agreed tiredly. "I thought you were gonna say that."
They drove into the endless night, the two hunters in their car, body already starting to rot in the trunk, fugitives from the law, and on the run from agents of Hell itself.
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed – up next: Sammy gets possessed, fucks some shit up as a result, as we gotta deal with the fallout. Also, Faith learns some more about her dad.
Also, I really do appreciate reviews! They go a long way!