Into Darkness
A month went by, and it passed slowly.
Faith and Toby found few jobs to work, and even fewer leads on the Cult, her father, or anything else that might have in some way felt like progress. Instead, Faith felt like she was in limbo, and she was frustrated.
"It's like this, sometimes," Toby would tell her when that frustration was most evident. "Some days there are too many jobs at once, the next there are none at all. S'just how it is."
They spent their time in between hunts researching, and at one point the jobs dried up completely, so Toby got them a cabin a little off the beaten path so they could train without being seen. Days passed elbow-deep in books and weaponry.
Where Faith was once too skinny, all long limbs and jutting bones, now she was … strong. Muscle had appeared where she'd thought it never would. Her arms now had a thickness to them, and her hips weren't quite so pointy, replaced instead by a softer curve. Her legs – which she'd always thought were her best feature – were suddenly graceful rather than gangly, her stomach flat and toned.
But no matter how nice it was to fill her time with little else but reading and training, Faith began to feel an itch beneath her skin. An urging push to start running and never stop. She'd always been that way – even with Nate – harbouring the urge to run like a secret seed in her heart. She didn't like staying in one place too long – and the one time she had, it hadn't exactly ended well.
Finally, the monotony was broken when Toby got an unexpected call from a close friend.
Faith was on the cabin's small porch, splayed on a second-hand yoga mat in Downward Dog while music blasted in her ears, when Toby stepped through the door and tapped her gently on the shoulder to get her attention. Pulling out of her pose, Faith tugged the buds from her ears and took the bottle of water from his hand.
"Heard from Bobby," he said as she chugged water and dabbed at the sweat on her neck. "He has a lead for us."
"On?"
"Everything," said Toby. "She's a psychic – name's Pamela Barnes. She's the real deal – well known for helping hunters out of tight spots."
"Do we really want to be going to a psychic with this?" she asked warily. "I mean, aren't they bad news? They talk with the dead."
"It's true that some go bad – use their gift for money and fame, or even for evil – but most of them are just regular people with a gift they feel obligated to share with the world. The majority just want to help, and hunters turn to them more often than you'd think. Besides, you really think Bobby would recommend her if he didn't think it was a good idea? That it wasn't safe?"
Faith considered that, chewing on it like gum until finally she relented. "Where we off to?"
"Nebraska," he said. "She agreed to meet us at the Roadhouse – she's only an hour or so out from it, anyway."
"Okay," she agreed because what were her other options, really? "Let's do it."
Two days later Faith found herself strolling into the Roadhouse, feeling vaguely like she was returning home after a long stretch away at work. While the Roadhouse wasn't quite the same haven that Bobby's place had become, it still held a certain homely quality to it. She supposed it felt that way to a lot of hunters; a place of consistency in a world where nothing else ever stayed.
Ellen greeted them with warm hugs and a free beer, then quietly asked if they'd heard from Jo.
"I talk to her every few days," Faith admitted. "She's doing okay, Ellen. Promise."
Ellen shrugged like she didn't mind one way or the other, but Faith knew better. Toby shifted forwards; his elbows balanced on the bar top.
"It's good that she's talking with Faith," he said wisely. "No hunter should be completely alone. It's bad for the soul. And the blood."
Ellen sniffed, then turned back to Faith with narrow eyes. "She still huntin'?"
Faith knew the answer wasn't the one Ellen wanted to hear. "You don't think she'd've come back if she wasn't?" she asked softly. Ellen was somehow both tense and slumped in defeat at the same time, which Faith thought was a feat in itself.
"I don't know what to think," Ellen said gruffly. "Not anymore."
Toby squeezed her shoulder. "You should call her."
Ellen's scoff was bitter. "She should call me."
Toby shook his head ruefully. "Stubborn woman."
Footsteps made the wooden floor creak behind Faith, and she turned, hand half-twitching towards the knife at her hip, only to find a normal woman – maybe Toby's age – approaching, weaponless but for a single knife Faith could count, hidden in her boot. She was gorgeous, with wavy dark hair and a smile sharp enough to cut through solid diamond.
"Faith Bueller, I presume," she said in a lazy, playful sort of way. Faith let her eyes flick over the woman's body – taking in everything from her leather pants, to her combat boots, to the simple tank-top she wore beneath a red leather jacket.
"You must be Pamela Barnes," said Toby before Faith could finish her perusal. He stood and extended a hand. "We've heard great things from Bobby."
Pamela shook his hand, her eyes dancing. "Bobby exaggerates."
"Shall we take a seat?" Toby suggested, and Faith looked away from Pamela with a blink.
"Sure," Pamela grinned cheekily, glancing to Ellen. "Could I grab a beer?"
Toby led the way over to a booth across the room, far enough away from the bikers near the bar that neither party would be able to overhear the other. Faith sipped her beer as she shuffled into the booth, Toby taking the spot on her left while Pamela slid onto the bench opposite them both. Faith set her beer down with a clink and tried not to look nervous.
"I'll be honest, I'm no fan of small talk," said Pamela bluntly, "so why don't we just get started?"
Toby shifted his weight forwards. "How much did Bobby tell you?"
"He told me the basics – you're wanting to know who your father was, what he was, and whether there's a chance he's not as dead as you've been led to believe," Pamela revealed. She slashed a smirk. "That about cover it?"
Faith nodded, and Pamela threw back some beer, absurdly confident.
"So, how do we go about getting answers?" Faith asked. "You just magically know, or do we have to run through some sort of black-magic ritual?"
Pamela shrugged. "Well, the obvious thing would be to speak with your mother."
Faith damn near choked on her beer. "Speak with—" she coughed noisily. Pamela didn't so much as blink, and Faith fought to regain control. She hadn't stopped to consider that maybe a chat with her mother was going to be on the table. "From the dead?" she asked dumbly.
Pamela arched a brow. "You do know what a psychic does, right?"
Still coughing, Faith pressed a hand to her forehead, suddenly overcome. Pamela sent her a gentle smile – like she knew what Faith was thinking – which was impossible, because not even Faith knew what she was thinking.
"Don't worry," Pamela said patiently. "We won't be doing a séance today. It's a bad time for one, anyway. No moon. But if we don't get the answers you need out of this, then that'll be the next step."
"Would I…" The question got tangled around her vocal chords and she had to clear her throat. "Would I be able to actually speak with her?"
Pamela cocked her head, considering Faith with new eyes. "It won't be like the movies. There won't be a corporeal representation for you to look at, and you won't be able to hear her. All contact will go through me. I'll act as a sort of conduit between the living and the dead. But yes, in a way, you'll be able to speak with her."
Faith fell silent, picking distractedly at the label of her beer. All these months working with the supernatural, and she'd never even considered the possibility that there might be a way for her to speak to her mother. She had so many questions, she was sure, but in the moment, none were coming to mind. Maybe she should write something down?
"How will today work?" Toby asked for her. Faith looked up and forced herself to focus. "If you're not going to be talking with spirits, what will you be doing?"
"Well, for starters, I thought I'd try psychometry."
"Psychometry?" Faith parroted, trying very hard to recall what that was from all the study she did, back in her early days with Bobby the year previous – but nothing came to mind. Then again, she'd been a little more concerned with demons and ghosts – the ins-and-outs of psychics hadn't been very high on her list of research priorities.
"It's the process of touching an item and learning its history through that contact," Pamela explained.
Faith frowned at their empty booth. "What do you plan to touch?"
Pamela smiled flirtatiously. "I was thinking I'd start with you."
Faith flushed with heat, and her lips curved up, eyes sparkling as she met the psychic's playfully. Pamela looked particularly pleased with herself. Toby muttered something under his breath that might have been an exasperated, "For fuck sake…"
Faith cut him an eye roll and refocused on the task at hand.
"How will touching me help?" she asked Pamela seriously.
"Well, I've never tried psychometry with a person before," she confessed. "It's typically only used on inanimate objects, but I'm confident the process will work almost the same way."
"But what will it tell you?" Faith pressed.
"Bobby said you had reasons to suspect your father might have had, shall we say a … supernatural secret. If he did, and it was passed on to you, I may be able to sense it. I may be able to divine an identity, too, although that's a larger leap."
Faith swallowed another mouthful of beer. "So, you touch me and all the answers just … come?"
Pamela laughed, the sound like cigar smoke and whiskey poured over ice. "It's a little more complicated than that, but I guess, from your perspective, yeah."
Pamela held out a hand, palm up, and Faith stared at it like someone might stare at a snarling, rabid dog. The psychic wiggled her fingers invitingly and Faith glanced to Toby, who nodded once, expression calm. So, breathing deep, Faith took Pamela's hand.
There was no flush of warmth, no rattle down her spine or tickle on the back of her neck to tell Faith that anything was happening. It just felt like holding another woman's hand. Her skin was warm and smooth, and Pamela held Faith's one hand in both of hers, cradling it like it was something precious. When Faith looked up from their hands, she found Pamela's eyes distant and foggy, like her body was in the Roadhouse with them, but the rest of her was far, far away.
Faith looked once more to Toby, who leant back in the booth and shrugged once. She wanted to snark back at him for being no help, but she didn't want to chance interrupting … whatever it was Pamela was in the middle of.
About a minute and a half passed in absolute silence, but then finally Pamela's eyes refocused on Faith, and she let out a curious hum.
"So, now do you know all my secrets?" Faith wondered as Pamela let go of her hand, picking up her beer and tossing back another bitter mouthful.
Pamela rewarded her with a smooth chuckle. "Like I said, it doesn't work that way."
"What'd you get?" Toby asked, uninterested in their playful banter.
Pamela sat back in the booth, taking a moment to sip her beer and think her thoughts, before she opened her mouth to tell them whatever it was that she'd learned. "There's a lot to sort through," she explained. "I saw moments – mere flashes – of your past. Your mom was a particularly beautiful soul."
Faith frowned. "I don't remember my mother."
"You don't need to remember it," Pamela explained. "You just need to have lived it."
"What else?" Toby pressed.
Pamela took another moment before saying, "I sensed something. Something I've never felt before. It was … large."
"Large," echoed Faith, toneless and short.
"I suppose 'powerful' is a better word to use," she smiled patiently. "I couldn't tell you exactly what it was – like I said, I've never come across it before – but there's a part of you that's beyond human, Faith. A part of you that you don't yet know how to access."
Faith stared.
"What does that mean?" Toby demanded for her, which was good, because Faith felt incapable of speech.
Pamela shrugged. "I came up against a certain … well, it was a wall, I guess you could say," she explained. "The power was hidden behind it. I could feel its mass, but I couldn't touch it – just like you can't touch it. Not really. But there were cracks in its surface."
"Cracks?"
"Whatever it is, this force that's keeping you from yourself – it's starting to break apart," Pamela told Faith gently, even though Toby had been the one to ask the question. "Hatching like an egg."
Faith's throat felt like sandpaper when she swallowed. "Is it dangerous?"
Pamela cocked her head. "Why would it be dangerous?"
"You said it was powerful."
"Power in itself is never dangerous," she said wisely. "It's the people who wield it that make it into a weapon. It's the people who are dangerous. It's not the bow's fault the archer shoots the arrow."
Faith was beginning to feel like she was talking to a sentient fortune cookie. "But what is it?"
Pamela shrugged. "I really don't know. But I think – you're strong, aren't you?"
Faith's muscles felt locked into place, and Toby shifted beside her. "Strong?"
Pamela's eyes never left Faith's. "You've done something you shouldn't have been able to. Something involving…a padlock?"
Faith's felt like someone had hollowed her insides out with a spoon. "How did you know that?" she rasped. Pamela rolled her eyes and Faith answered her own question. "Psychic, right. Um, yes – I … I ripped a metal padlock open with my bare hands."
"When the bloody hell was this?" Toby demanded, eyes round and full of anger – or maybe it was panic.
The cat was well and truly out of the bag, and Faith gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "About six months ago – when you were taking a break, and I worked that job with Jo and the boys."
Toby stared hard at the side of her face and Faith kept her eyes resolutely on her hands, where they went back to fiddling with the label of her beer, now all but in tatters.
"There was a surge of great emotion – fear, or maybe desperation?" Pamela pressed.
Faith could only nod.
"The rush of emotion works against this wall around whatever it is within you – it's less of a physical ability than it is a mental one. When you feel strong emotion like that, you can call upon that strength – amongst other things. Some of it's already begun to leak, though I can't tell what."
"I'm good with weapons," Faith blurted, like Pamela had pulled the words from the back of her throat. "I'm great with them, actually. Like, supernaturally great." She glanced up at Pamela, who looked thoughtful and focused. "I've never heard of anything with the power of perfect aim before – have you?"
"No," said Pamela carefully.
"This wall," Toby spoke up, and when Faith chanced a peek at him, he was frowning hard and doing a good job of not looking at her. "It was put there by someone?"
Faith thought it was sort of a ridiculous question, but Pamela didn't agree. She nodded eagerly, seeming to understand where he was going with the thought. "It definitely felt made. It's not there by accident." She turned to meet Faith's stare. "Someone's been rifling through your head."
Faith's heart leapt with panic, and she went to toss back another mouthful of beer only to find her bottle empty. She looked up and gestured at Ellen, who had kept one eye on their table for their whole conversation – protective and worried with no daughter of her own around to mother, thus using Faith as a surrogate.
"Who would do that?" Faith wondered, not really expecting an answer.
She was surprised when Pamela said, without hesitation, "Your father."
Faith blinked, staring at Pamela, half expecting, half hoping she would burst into laughter and assure her she was kidding. When she didn't, Faith's heart turned to rock and sunk down through her body. "My father," she repeated the words like they were a foreign language.
Pamela nodded. "Don't ask how I know," she said as Ellen appeared, another beer opened for Faith, who took it gratefully and threw back a gulp. "It's not so black-and-white, what I do. I don't get an essay of answers, complete with facts and figures and a bibliography. All I've got is knowledge. I just know."
"Like a feeling?"
Pamela's smile turned sharp again. "Well, an accurate one."
"Is that all you could tell about her father?" Toby asked.
"Yes," she told him. "Whoever he is, he's done a great job at covering his tracks."
"What about the Hades' Cult?" he pressed. "Can you tell us anything about them?"
Pamela opened her mouth to speak, only for the words to die on her lips. Her eyes glazed over again, and she stared into empty space with a sort of absent focus Faith had never seen before. Too scared to break her from her stupor, Faith and Toby just sipped their beers and waited for her to come out of it.
When she did, it was with something they didn't expect. "Someone's trying to speak to me," she said in a rush.
Faith froze, hoping to God it wasn't her mother. "Who?"
"I don't know. It's a man; mid-thirties. He died kind of recently, maybe within a year or so of today?"
Toby went utterly rigid beside her. Faith automatically reached for his hand, holding tight, a silent support. "What's he saying?" she asked, because Toby didn't seem capable of speech.
Pamela propped her elbows on the table and pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging them slowly as she listened. "I'm getting something … something about a Devil's Gate?" she muttered, looking up at them hastily. "Do either of you know what that is?"
Faith felt cold all over, and now when she gripped Toby's hand it was as much for her comfort as it was for his. "Yes," she said darkly. "We know what that is."
Pamela nodded distantly. "He says… he says 'soon'," she murmured, eyes scrunched and head tilted, like she was trying to listen carefully to something being whispered from very far away. "It's happening soon … and you need to stop it. Don't let it open, no matter the cost."
Toby remained absolutely rigid, staring at Pamela, pale in the face. "What else does he say?" he managed to ask; voice raw with emotion.
Pamela frowned one more time, then suddenly opened her eyes. "He's too far away – to speak to him properly, I'd need to hold a proper séance," she said apologetically.
"But – is it him?" Toby pressed, sounding like he couldn't catch his breath. "Is it…?"
"The name I got was Oliver Valencia," she said quietly. Toby abruptly slumped, like all his energy was gone, zapped by the mere mention of his late partner's name. Pamela's eyes flickered over him with both curiosity and sadness. "He seems very eager to speak to you."
Toby's eyes were squeezed tight, and Faith held his hand like she was trying to keep him on this plane of existence with her, half afraid he might try to go running off into the ever-dark after Oliver. "What do you need for a séance?" he asked Pamela roughly.
Even the psychic appeared taken aback by that question. "Well, all my things are back at home-"
Toby shot suddenly to his feet. "Did you drive? I'll follow you."
Faith and Pamela stared up at him in varying degrees of pity and shock. He didn't seem to care, his whole world now narrowed to the focus point of Oliver and the chance of speaking to him again. Pamela looked between them, but Faith just looked up at her partner, concerned.
"I took the bus," Pamela finally said. "Bobby said you were good people, so I thought we'd have a few drinks—"
"I can drive you," he insisted, eyes glazed over.
Faith slowly reached up, taking his hand in hers again and trying to gently pull him back down into the booth. "Toby, I don't know if—"
"If it was Nate, would you do it?" he asked, eyes wild in a way she'd never seen on him, but she'd seen plenty of times in the mirror.
The question hit her like a blow and Faith let go of his hand – let go of any tether forcing him to stay there. "Okay," she said, nodding. This was what he needed; how could she possibly stand in the way of that? she turned to the psychic. "Pamela – are you comfortable with—?"
Pamela slapped her legs. "Well, I wasn't planning on doing a séance today, but I guess—"
"We might be able to find out more about the Devil's Gate, and when it's going to open," Toby insisted, almost feverish. Faith would have been worried, but she knew how he felt because he was right. If it were Nate, she'd already be halfway to the car, whether she had to drag Pamela kicking or screaming to get it done. "I should go, and – for the sake of information—"
"Go, Toby," Faith said, trying to smile. "You don't need to try to justify it. And don't do this for me. You want to speak to him. It's okay."
Pamela looked between them, considering, then said, "I live about an hour away—"
"Not a problem," Toby assured her.
Pamela sighed and nodded her head. "Okay," she finally agreed. "I want a minute with Faith before we go, though. Can I meet you out front?"
Toby hesitated.
"Go," Faith physically pushed him towards the door. "I'll hang out here with Ellen for a few hours. Don't worry about hurrying back, I'm sure she'll let me crash in one of the back rooms."
Toby still hesitated.
"Seriously, Toby, the only danger I'm going to be in is from Ash trying to time it so he can walk in on me naked," she insisted. "I wanna spend some more time with Ellen, anyway. I think she's lonely, y'know, without Jo here."
Some of the feverish glaze to Toby's eyes melted, and he looked down at her, a little clearer than before. "You don't mind?"
"You need to speak to Oliver without me. Besides, I'm serious about Ellen. I wanna stay. So go, speak to him. Please."
Toby nodded, his shoulders slumped with relief. "Okay," he murmured. He turned to Pamela, who watched them with keen, catlike eyes. "I'll meet you outside."
Pamela nodded, and with a final squeeze of his partner's hand, Toby left the bar, disappearing out into the sunshine.
Faith watched him go, her heart aching in both a good and bad way. Good because she was happy that he was getting to talk to his lost love, bad because she wasn't sure what it would do to him in the long run. And also, because she wasn't sure she'd ever get the chance to do the same for herself. Maybe one day, once everything with the Cult and these Devil's Gate things and the stuff with her mysterious father was all over and done with, she could hit Pamela up again and ask for a séance of her own.
Maybe.
"If you come see me some other time, I might be able to connect with the person you lost," Pamela said gently.
Faith looked away from the door Toby had just disappeared out of, blinking in surprise. "How—?"
"Let's skip right to 'psychic' again," Pamela smirked.
Faith huffed a weak laugh. "Right."
"Can I have your phone?"
Faith obediently slid her phone across the table to Pamela, who took it and began to type in her contact information.
"Call me, sometime," she said, meeting Faith's eye as she slid the phone back. "We can go for another beer – talk about that séance."
"Okay," Faith said automatically.
Pamela smiled and reached across the table, taking Faith's hands in her own. "Try not to be scared of your own power, Faith."
"I'm not scared of it," Faith lied. Pamela's unimpressed look was telling, but Faith powered on anyway. "I'm scared of the unknown," she tried again, and that, at least, was true.
"Everyone is," Pamela said. Faith exhaled slowly. "You do yoga, right?"
This time Faith didn't bother asking how she knew that.
"Next time you're practicing, try focusing less on the body and instead turning your gaze inward," Pamela suggested. "I think the answers you're looking for are inside you."
Faith could only nod.
Pamela's eyes sharpened, her hands tightening around Faith's. "Child of War," she murmured almost as if compelled. "That's what they call you, isn't it? The demons? I can see it in your past. You think it's because of your inclination for violence."
Faith's mouth felt too dry. "Isn't it?"
"I don't think so," said Pamela quietly, thoughtfully. "That might be a good place to start."
She pulled her hands away and Faith sucked in a lungful of air, realising she hadn't been breathing for too long.
"I see fire surrounding you," Pamela added casually as she picked up her jacket and slung it over her arm.
Faith looked up. "Fire?"
"Yes," she nodded casually. "Be careful."
Nonplussed, Faith could only say, "I'll try."
Pamela turned to go, throwing a smirk over her shoulder, "I was serious about that phone call!"
"Pamela?!" Faith's call stopped her in her tracks. She looked back curiously. "Look after Toby?" she asked, the request feeling lame on her tongue.
But Pamela's smile calmed her frazzled nerves. "Sure thing," she said warmly. "Your partner's safe with me."
And that was that. She left the bar, disappearing out into the sunshine after Toby. Sat alone in the booth, Faith felt like all the energy had been leached from her body, all the thoughts sieved out of her head, leaving her with nothing but a gaping void where her brain should be.
Ellen appeared, a basket of hot fries in hand. She placed them under Faith's nose and the delicious smell was enough to jolt Faith from her stupor. "Eat," Ellen ordered.
"Thanks, Ellen," said Faith, picking one up only to drop it again, the temperature scalding.
"Where'd Toby and the psychic go?"
"Back to her place for a séance. Pamela says Oliver's trying to speak to Toby, who was pretty eager for the chance. Not that I blame him."
Ellen made a sound that was half-hum, half-grunt. "I just hope it doesn't do him more harm than good."
"Yeah," Faith agreed distantly. "Me too."
Ellen looked away from the front door, frowning down at Faith, looking just as worried. "Why don't you come up to the bar, talk to me while I work?" she suggested, seeming to somehow sense the gaping void in Faith's head, and the matching one growing in her chest. Ellen was good that way; intuitive in a way most people wouldn't expect.
Faith sat up at the bar and chatted with Ellen while she ate her fries. It was easy, Faith found, to not think about everything Pamela had told them. There would be time to over-analyse later. For now, she just wanted to exist in the moment, eat some fries, and pretend like there wasn't some mysterious power hidden behind a wall inside of her, the shell around it beginning to crack like the hatching of a great egg.
Ash scurried past at one point, but when she called out to him, he just waved dismissively and disappeared into the back room. "He's busy doing research for those Winchester boys," Ellen told her conspiratorially.
"What kind of research?" Faith couldn't help her curiosity.
Ellen shook her head. "I learned long ago when not to ask questions."
She brought out a fresh basket of fries, and Faith sipped on another beer while she nibbled, chatting with Ellen about nothing of consequence. She let the older woman mother her, despite how desperately her instincts urged her to rebel. She knew Ellen missed Jo like a missing limb, and if Faith could help fill that void for even a moment, then she felt like she owed it to them both to try.
Faith was just considering asking Ellen if she wanted to ditch the bar work to go play a round of pool when her phone began to buzz in her pocket. She fished it out, expecting an update from Toby, only to frown at the private ID. She almost didn't answer – but figured it could be important and didn't want to risk missing out on a good job or a decent lead on the Cult just because she had an aversion to telemarketers.
"Hello?" she answered the call, tapping her dirty fingernails against the bar.
But on the other end of the line there was only static, along with a muffled murmuring that might have been some kind of accented question? Or an introduction to a pyramid scheme in Spanish, possibly?
"Hello?" she tried again.
Ellen looked up from the pretzels she was tipping into little bowls. "Reception's shitty unless you're using the landline," she explained. "You might wanna go outside; you'll hear better out there."
Sighing, Faith reluctantly made her way out into the sunshine. The usual cars, trucks and bikes were lined up in the dirt field that served as the Roadhouse's parking lot, but the call was still spotty, so Faith began to walk towards the road, hoping the reception would pick up.
"Hello? Can you hear me?" she asked, hand shielding her face against the sun.
She wasn't expecting to be attacked, much less from behind. Toby was going to kick her ass for letting her guard down so stupidly.
Somebody crashed into her, and her cell phone flew from her hand, landing hard in the dirt. Faith cried out, twisting in the person's grip and reaching simultaneously for the knife at her hip. A fist caught her in the face and Faith felt her lip tear open, blood spilling out over her chin.
Whoever they were, they were strong. Stronger than the average human.
Her theory was proved correct when she finally managed to turn enough to catch sight of her attacker's face. It was a male with black, greasy hair and matching onyx eyes.
"Motherfu—" she tried to cuss, but the demon took her legs out from under her and she hit the ground hard. The sun was in her eyes and her head bashed against a rock embedded in the dirt, sending blistering white across her vision.
Somewhere nearby there was an explosion of noise, maybe some kind of pipe bomb going off? But Faith couldn't focus on that now – she had a demon hovering over her, snarl on its stolen face.
"Get off me!" she shrieked, bringing her knee up between its legs. It let out a yelp, startled by the unexpected, human weakness, and it bought her enough time to sweep its own legs out from underneath it. It hit the ground even harder than she had, rolling away just in time for her knife blade to sink into the soil, missing its kidney by inches.
Sweeping out her arm, she caught the demon in the jaw. It threw back its head, blood spilling from its mouth. She was barely aware of herself as she opened her own mouth and began to speak, Latin pouring from her lips, by this point second nature.
The exorcism was one Toby had made her recite every day, until she knew it by heart. He didn't want her to be stuck with a demon but without a book handy, out of luck and options. The exorcism burst free, and the demon began to scream. It was working, and she might have even been okay were it not for the fact that the demon wasn't alone.
Another one appeared, throwing itself over her and clamping one a hand over her mouth to stop her from speaking the magic Latin words and using the other to grab her wrist, twisting until her knife clattered to the dirt. Faith screamed into his hand, thrashing and bucking to break free, but the demon was strong, and it was determined.
She sank her teeth into the flesh of its stolen hand and the demon released her with a roar. She barely had time to spit the tainted blood from her mouth before she was muttering the exorcism again from scratch, the words coming like a footstep, like a heartbeat.
"Knock her out!" shouted another demon from nearby. There was a roaring in her ears, something nearly deafening. Faith thought the sound was familiar, but her head was throbbing in time with her pulse and her vision was still dancing with stars, so she couldn't spare the braincells to figure out why.
"She's strong!" shouted the demon over her. Mouth free, she screamed loudly, hoping someone inside the Roadhouse would hear her – a random hunter, or maybe Ellen with a shotgun, any backup at all. But nobody came and the demon's hands wrapped around her throat like a farmer wringing a chicken for dinner.
Faith slapped and clawed at his face, but the demon's grip never let up. Her vision began to turn dark, her extremities too-hot. Her lungs screamed desperately for air.
"Hey! You can't kill her, you idiot!" shouted a voice from somewhere behind them. "That's Faith Jett! The Cult will flay you alive if she dies!"
The demon above her growled and let go of her neck. Faith had no capacity to do anything but suck in lungfuls of air, letting her darkening vision turn bright again. "Fine," snapped the demon hovering over her. Faith stared up at it, opening her mouth in a weak attempt to start her exorcism anew, only for the bastard to grab her by the hair, lift her head upwards, then slam it back against the rock-hard ground.
Her vision flickered and died, and then Faith knew nothing at all.
She was awoken by a hand gently slapping her face; a familiar, gravelly voice saying her name. She clamoured her way out of the pit of oblivion she'd somehow fallen into, wrenching open her eyes, only to slam them shut again at the pain that stabbed at her brain.
"Faith!" cried Dean, hovering above her.
Faith screamed, shoving at him. Dean rolled off her with a grunt, landing beside her in the dirt while she scrambled for space, for air. Her throat felt both like it was slick with soot and she'd been gargling nails for a week. She lifted a hand to grip her neck, but touching it did no good, it just made the muscles there ache.
"Faith," said Dean again, crouched on the ground in front of her. When had he moved? "Jesus, Faith. Are you okay? What the hell happened?"
She tried to speak but could only manage a sad cough. Bobby appeared suddenly, a bottle of water outstretched, and Faith took it, greedily gulping it down, letting it soothe her burning throat.
"Demons," she finally managed to choke out, still sat pathetically in the dirt.
Dean's eyes went wide. "Demons burnt down the Roadhouse?!"
The words didn't compute. "Burnt down the—?"
She twisted in place, turning to look at the Roadhouse behind her. Some part of her just felt confused – surely Dean was wrong, somehow mistaken, and she was going to turn to find the Roadhouse in perfect condition, Ash waving her back inside with the promise of a game of pool and a beer – but when she laid eyes on the Roadhouse, that confusion morphed into pure panic.
The Roadhouse was gone – the barest remnants remaining, a scorched monument to where it had once stood. She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping when the world began to spin, the ground roiling beneath her feet. A strange keening noise ripped from her chest as something wrapped around her front, pulling her back against a large, firm body.
"Ellen!" she cried, the name tearing strangled from her wrecked throat.
"It's okay," Dean was murmuring in her ear, but she wasn't listening. "Faith, it's okay."
"Ellen! Ash!" she screamed again, struggling weakly against Dean, as if maybe they were just hiding somewhere, as if she just had to go find them, and they'd all be okay. There was something hot on her face, and she felt arms turn her forcefully around so that she wasn't looking at the burnt husk of the Roadhouse, but at Dean's face, pain written across his features, along with concern and maybe a hint of panic.
She felt outside herself, both sad and angry. Both ruined and furious. She didn't know how to cope – how to move on with this new reality. People died every day – but surely, not now. Not Ellen.
"Faith," Dean said, strong hands pressed to her shoulders, holding her in place. "Faith, talk to me, okay? Come back," he was saying in a low, soothing voice. "Breathe, sweetheart, and come back to me."
It was the pet name that grounded her more than anything, and she slammed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breath deep and calm the storm in her head. Dean's hands were rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders; her raging pulse began to slow. She let the warm, steady presence of him calm her even further.
When she opened her eyes, nothing was better. Her throat was on fire and her head felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it. The Roadhouse was a monument of charred bones, and Ellen and Ash were dead. But she'd stopped trembling, and she could breathe, which was progress.
Dean ducked down, green eyes catching hazel and holding them. "There you are," he said quietly, as though he'd been searching all over and had finally found her. The words were unexpectedly tender. He was stifling his own pain for her – as if she was more important than his own reaction. She didn't care to analyse that. At least, not right now.
"Faith," came Bobby's crackling voice, and she looked away from Dean to glance at the older hunter. He looked harrowed, like someone had his heart clenched tight in their fist. "What happened?"
She cast her mind back, ignoring the way thinking too hard made her brain literally throb. "I was here with Toby…"
Dean stood taller, his grip on her shoulders tightening. "Was he inside—?"
"No," she nearly gasped the word. "He went away – um, Pamela. He's with Pamela Barnes."
Bobby nodded once, relief flashing across his face. "Good. He's safe."
"What else, Faith?" Dean pressed, drawing her attention back to him. "What happened next?"
"I got – um … someone called me," she recalled, shutting her eyes against the sharp jab of the sunshine against her sensitive corneas. "A private number. I couldn't get reception, so I came out here, and they … they jumped me."
"How many?" Dean demanded roughly. "Are you sure they were demons?"
She couldn't even summon the strength to snap at him for barking at her. "Two at least, probably more if they managed to…" She glanced at what little remained of the Roadhouse again, then bit down on her tongue and refocused. "They weren't trying to kill me," she told Dean hoarsely. "They wanted to keep me alive. Something about the Cult. I think they just wanted to draw me out of the Roadhouse so they could light it up."
Dean gripped her tighter still. "Did you speak to Ash at all?"
"No," she rasped, beginning to feel less comforted and more like she was participating in an interview. "I-I wanted to play pool, but he seemed busy…"
"Dammit," cursed Dean, letting her go and stomping away in a fuss.
Faith's shoulders felt cold without his hot hands pressed against them. Bobby came up beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to help keep her up, as though she couldn't handle her own weight. Under different circumstances, Faith might have been embarrassed, but she was so wrecked from the events of the day that she simply leant on him, glad to have someone there.
"What the hell did Ash know?" Dean was ranting, pacing a hole in the dirt. "We've got no way of knowing where Ellen is – or if she's even alive. We've got no clue what Ash was gonna tell us. Now, how the hell are we gonna find Sam?"
The words were a wakeup call for Faith's brain, which until then, had felt sluggish and distant, like she was borrowing it from a friend, and it was getting bad reception. "Sam's missing?" she asked, everything around her sharpening a little more into clarity.
"Since last night," Dean muttered.
Faith's pulse jumped. "You tried to trace his cell?"
"Of course I tried to trace his cell!" Dean exploded, whirling on her furiously. "You really think that wasn't the first goddamn thing I—"
He suddenly doubled over. For a fleeting second, Faith thought he was so overcome that he was going to puke, but instead he gripped either side of his head in agony, crying out as if someone was drilling a hole through his skull.
"Dean?" she gasped, pushing out of Bobby's hold and stumbling over to him. She rested an unsteady hand on his back, and he groaned louder, clutching his head so tight his knuckles went white. "Dean!" she cried, holding him tight and scanning the immediate area for some sign of a threat, though there was nothing.
They were alone in the pit of ashes where the Roadhouse had once stood. If something was attacking Dean, it was doing so remotely.
As suddenly as the attack came on, it was over. Dean stood upright, gasping for air, the redness in his face receding.
"What the fuck was that?!" Faith demanded hotly when Dean didn't immediately explain. "Do you need a doctor?"
"No," said Dean quickly, stubbornly, and if her head own wasn't throbbing, she would have rolled her eyes. "It was just a headache."
Bobby looked just as concerned. "You get headaches like that a lot?"
"No," Dean snapped. "Must be the stress."
He turned away from her, pacing the dirt that made up what had once been the parking lot of the Roadhouse. Faith's hand slipped from his back, where she hadn't even noticed it had been resting.
"It's weird, though. I could have sworn I saw something," he muttered, half to himself.
Bobby stood straighter. "What do you mean? Like a vision? Like what Sam gets?"
"What? No!"
Faith frowned. "What? Sam gets visions?"
They ignored her.
"Come on, I'm not some psychic," Dean said to Bobby, looking insulted by the mere implication.
Another wave of pain seemed to hit him, and Dean collapsed back against the side of the Impala with a cry. Faith didn't feel steady enough on her feet to cross the clearing and reach for him, so she settled for clenching her hands into fists and trying not to puke.
"Dean?" Bobby crossed the space between them, gripping Dean's shoulders. "Are you with me?"
Dean blinked blearily, coming out of whatever had happened to him. "Yeah, I think so," he said weakly. "I saw Sam. I saw him, Bobby."
Bobby nodded once. "It was a vision."
And this time Dean didn't argue. "Yeah. I don't know how, but yeah." He took a moment to shake his head, clearing it. "That was about as fun as getting kicked in the jewels," he muttered, rubbing at the spot above his eyebrow like a ghost of the pain remained.
"What else did you see?"
"Uh… there was a bell."
Bobby looked unimpressed. "What kind of bell?"
"Like a big bell with some kind of engraving on it, I don't know."
"Engraving? Was it a tree? Like, an oak tree?"
Dean paused, surprise coming over his face as clear as words written on a page. "Yeah, exactly."
But Bobby just looked grave. "I know where Sam is."
"Where?"
He sighed. "Cold Oak."
Faith blinked. "You're kidding."
"What's Cold Oak?" Dean demanded, voice tight with frustration.
"Supposedly the most haunted place in North America," said Bobby. "It's a town in South Dakota, only an hour or so out from the salvage yard."
Faith nodded her head only for the world to turn hazy and the ground to shift under her feet, making her careen to the left. Dean caught her as she stumbled, and she brought a hand to her swimming head. "Come sit down," he said, guiding her to the Impala and opening the door, guiding her gently onto the passenger seat.
She remained dizzy, pressing a hand to her spinning head and focusing on breathing deep without throwing up. Dean crouched in front of her, hands braced on her knees, but Faith didn't open her eyes to look at him.
"Should we drop her at a hospital on the way?" Bobby wondered quietly.
"No time," said Dean, still holding her knees, his grip tightening. "I've got a first aid kit in the trunk. We'll patch her up when we get there."
Bobby didn't argue, but Faith didn't mind. If Sam really was missing, then her spinning head was the least of their problems. She opened her eyes and squinted against the sunlight at Dean. "We should go," she croaked.
Dean looked away from Bobby, meeting her eyes. "You'll be okay?"
She batted away the question. "You said it yourself; there's no time," she muttered, leaning back and bringing her legs into the Impala. "Let's go."
Dean didn't bother arguing. Bobby left them for his own car and Faith watched with half-lidded eyes as Dean walked around the car to the driver's side, sliding inside and shutting the door behind him with a bang that rattled and echoed within Faith's aching skull.
Bobby left first, and Dean was quick to turn the Impala in a circle, pulling out onto the main road after him. Faith craned her neck back until it hurt, watching the pile of soot and ash that had once been the Roadhouse until finally it disappeared behind the trees, officially gone from her life.
"I don't think you should sleep," said Dean as her head began to bob with exhaustion, the cool glass of the window soothing against the ache in her temple. "You could have a concussion."
Faith sighed and reluctantly wrenched open her dry eyes. "Brilliant."
Dean reached towards the stereo. "I could play some music-"
"My head hurts enough as it is," she said, and Dean dropped his hand back to the steering wheel. They fell silent again, and Faith felt her eyes beginning to droop. "Talk to me," she begged Dean, sluggish and slurred.
Hesitation, then, "About what?"
"How did Sam go missing?" she asked, reluctantly forcing her eyes to remain open, staring at the distant horizon to try and squash the urge to puke. "And what did you mean by visions? Has Sam been psychic all this time and it's just somehow never come up before now?"
Dean sighed and with that sound alone, Faith could tell that this wasn't an easy conversation topic for him. She thought about what Toby had said about the hunters' mentality. They didn't trust what they didn't understand, and maybe Dean was just as worried about Sam's visions as Toby was about Faith's maybe-immortal father. She suddenly felt bad for bringing it up at all.
But before she could take the question back, Dean was talking.
"We were getting some food last night – some rundown diner in the middle of nowhere," he began carefully. "I looked away for a second, just one moment, and then he was gone. Waitress was laid in a pool of her own blood, diners all dead. And Sam was just, he was missing. Traces of sulphur told me demons were involved but, whatever happened … it happened fast."
Despite the roiling in her head, Faith found it surprisingly easy to listen to Dean. It was like his voice acted as an anchor, keeping her in place, letting her mind focus on something other than her own pain. "Do you think it had something to do with these … er, visions, you mentioned?"
Dean inhaled slowly. "It's a long story," he told her on his exhale.
"And it's not a short drive," she countered. "We have time."
He was quiet for so long that Faith assumed he wasn't going to answer her, and she sank down a little more in the leather of the Impala's passenger seat. Her eyes were just beginning to drift shut when Dean spoke again, making her blink back to consciousness.
"What I'm going to tell you, you can't tell anyone else," he said the words with a quiet intensity, and Faith turned to stare at the side of his face. He was staring out at the road, the visor pulled down to block the sun from his eyes. When she said nothing, those green eyes darted away from the road long enough to catch hers. "I'm serious, Faith, not even Toby. This stays between us."
"Okay," she agreed. "I swear."
Dean heaved a sigh, still looking reluctant to be saying anything at all – though there was a certain pull at his mouth, a crinkle at his eye, that told her maybe he needed to say something; to tell someone, anyone … even her.
"When Sammy was a baby – on the night he turned six months old – a yellow-eyed demon broke into our house in Lawrence, Kansas…"
The story was indeed a long one – starting twenty-some years ago in Kansas and ending with them hurtling down the highway towards South Dakota like they had hellhounds on their tail. Dean told her about Sam's strange powers, and about how there were other children like him all over the country, harbouring similar unnatural abilities. He told her how the yellow-eyed demon had plans for them all, and how Dean's father had spent the rest of his life chasing the bastard across the country, trying to exact his revenge and put Dean's mother to rest once and for all.
The sun had gone down by the time Dean was finished, and Faith stared at his profile in the shadows of the Impala, lit up occasionally by a streetlight or the passing beam of another car's headlights.
She knew this was hard on Sam, and in some ways, she could relate. She had also come from places she didn't understand. She also didn't quite yet know all she was truly capable of. So, she thought that maybe she knew what Sam was feeling – but it wasn't Sam her heart was bleeding for.
The pain in Dean's voice as he spoke, telling her about how he'd watched out for Sammy all his life, and how he wasn't sure if those days were over – the two of them suddenly on opposite sides of the war. Faith lifted a hand, gripping her own throat and watching headlights glow in the green of Dean's eyes.
"You still with me?" he asked after some time had passed without her speaking.
Faith licked her dry lips. "I'm still with you," she said, and it felt like a promise she hadn't meant to make.
Dean's hands flexed on the steering wheel. "You understand why nobody else can know—"
"I won't tell another soul," she swore. Dean cleared his throat once, nodding his thanks.
The silence that followed was loud, and not so much uncomfortable as it was unbalanced. Faith felt like it was only fair she should offer some piece of herself in return. Only, these days, the pieces of herself were getting more and more blurry-edged and indistinct. Harder to make out and touch.
"I'm trying to find my father," she blurted, a sliver of truth surrounded by murky, lies-by-omission.
Dean glanced at her in the passing glow of a streetlight. "Really?"
She kept her eyes out the windscreen. "Toby and I – we just thought maybe, I dunno … he might know something. Slim chance, I know, but any lead's a good lead, these days."
Dean nodded, considering that for a few moments in silence. "Any luck?"
"Not really," she sighed, tugging at a thread in her dust-covered jeans. "Just … more questions."
"Can you ask Ash?"
They both froze, and the silence that followed was thick with grief. Faith knew how easy it was to forget somebody was gone – a stray thought, an idle musing, and for a flash they were still alive. But reality always found its way back to them, and Ash was still gone. Faith glanced at Dean to find him frowning at the dark road, eyes fixed on Bobby's taillights.
"Do you think he suffered?" Faith's voice came out smaller than she'd have liked.
Dean took a deep breath. "I think burning alive is one of the worser ways to go," he finally said, grip tightening on the steering wheel, though otherwise he had no reaction. Faith winced, trying not to picture Ash – funny, smart, ridiculous Ash – burning alive inside the one place that had been a sanctuary for hunters like him.
But no matter what she did, or how hard she cried, her mind still conjured up the sound of Ash's screams as the fire melted the flesh from his bones.
Faith reached for Dean's stereo, but when he twitched as if to stop her, Faith raised her brows, shocked out of her dark stupor by the move. She looked over at him with raised brows, and Dean became awkward under her stare. "…I don't usually let people touch my stereo."
Her responding smile was genuine. "Will you make an exception?"
He was going to say no – she could see the word forming on his lips – but then he chanced a look at her in the glow of the highway's lights and his resolve seemed to melt. "Fine," he said, sounding particularly begrudging, sinking just a little lower in his seat.
Faith bit down on another smile, beginning to fiddle with the old stereo until, eventually, the speakers began to buzz with whatever was already in the tape deck. The song began with a familiar guitar strumming, and Faith looked up with raised brows.
"The Rolling Stones?" she asked in surprise.
"What? Wild Horses," he said, gesturing at the stereo and the song playing. "It's a classic."
"I didn't say I didn't like it," she chuckled, leaning back in the passenger seat and closing her eyes, beginning to quietly sing along to the music under her breath.
The music filled her head. She was grateful for the distraction, tilting her head back against the rest and listening to Mick Jagger sing. Faith was happy to just feel the gentle rock of the Impala, the rattle of the engine beneath her seat, the warm presence of Dean at her side.
Wild horses, couldn't drag me away…
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday…
Faith was surprised to find the moment peaceful enough to nearly lull her into sleep, but it was just as she began to drift off that something occurred to her.
"Shit!" she said abruptly enough that Dean flinched.
"Jesus!" he cried, glaring at her in the dark. "What the hell, Bueller?"
"Toby," she exclaimed, already shifting in her seat to try to reach for the phone in her back pocket. But it wasn't there. Faith realised it must have been lost in the fight with those demons. She turned to Dean urgently. "I need your phone."
He handed over his phone without a word of complaint. She was suddenly glad Toby had made her memorise his number – in case of emergencies exactly like this one. The phone rang three times before Toby picked up, the sound of his voice was a balm to her frazzled nerves.
"Winchester?" he asked, made automatically suspicious by the caller ID.
"Toby, it's Faith. I lost my phone and—" she stopped speaking abruptly. What was she supposed to say? The Roadhouse is gone, Ash and Ellen along with it? I was too busy getting my ass kicked to be of any help?
"Faith?" he pressed, now anxious. "Are you okay? Why are you with Dean?"
She frowned. "You haven't tried to call me?"
"No, I – there was traffic, and then the séance went on awhile and I needed a cup of tea, so Pamela and I went to a nearby café and, well, I s'pose we lost track of time. I figured by now you'd have either picked someone up or gotten roped into some stupid bet with Ash."
Faith said nothing. It felt like her heart was no longer pulsing blood through her body, but rather just pure, concentrated pain.
"Faith?" Toby pressed.
"The Roadhouse is gone," she managed to choke. "Demons. I was attacked and the bar was burnt to the ground. It – Toby, it's all gone."
For a long moment there was silence, and Faith felt her eyes begin to sting again. "Are you okay?" Toby finally asked, the casual ease now gone from his voice, replaced now by something wrathful.
"I'm alive," she replied, and left it at that. "Dean and Bobby found me. We're on our way to look for Sam – which is a long story, so don't ask. How about we meet back at Bobby's place tomorrow?"
Again, Toby's silence was filled with pain. "Okay," he said, hoarse. "Er – did anyone—?"
"Nobody else made it out," Faith said, shutting her eyes against the stab of guilt. "Just me."
Toby cleared his throat. "Stay safe."
"You too."
She hung up and handed the phone back to Dean without a word. He took it without speaking, and Faith let herself slump until her aching forehead pressed against the glass of the window.
A beat, and Dean cleared his throat. "It wasn't your fault."
Faith didn't dignify that with a response, and neither of them spoke again for the rest of the hasty drive to Cold Oak.
Eventually, Bobby pulled up at an abandoned roadblock. He got out of the car with a gun and flashlight in hand, and Dean followed close behind. "Stay in the car," Dean ordered her when she began to climb out after them.
She scoffed and went around to the back of the Impala. "Fat chance," she said, ignoring the way the world swirled around her.
"I'm serious, Bueller," snapped Dean. "You're injured. Sit this one out."
Fetching a pretty silver handgun out of Dean's weapons cache, Faith checked the clip before grabbing a flashlight and shutting the Impala's trunk with a snap. "Sam's my friend," she reminded Dean tersely. "I'm coming."
Luckily, Dean was frantic enough to find Sam that he didn't bother arguing any more. The two of them met up with Bobby at the roadblock, their flashlights the only light other than the silvery glow of the moon and stars.
"Straight through there, a couple hundred metres," Bobby told them in a whisper, as if something might be listening. "Listen, the legends of this place aren't built from nothing."
"What're you saying, Bobby?" Dean asked impatiently.
"Just that we should be careful."
"Noted," said Dean, then rounded the roadblock and marched off into the dark.
Faith shared a wary glance with Bobby and yet they still followed Dean, traipsing off after him into the most haunted place in the country, nothing but some guns and what precious little they had in their pockets to protect them from whatever might come crawling out of the shadows.
Faith's head continued to pound, throbbing along to the beat of her pulse, the world a little blurry when it should have been in perfect focus. Her neck was bruised and swollen, and it was as if she could still feel the demon's hands tight around it, cutting off the blood to her brain, the oxygen to her lungs. The inside of her throat felt like she'd thrown back a shot of tar; she could still taste the smoke on her tongue.
But none of that mattered. Sam was in danger and if she could help at all, she would. Come rain, hail, or concussion.
And at some point, it did begin to rain. The cool drops against her hot forehead were almost soothing, the ringing in her ears overtaken by the crack and grumble of distant thunder. Every now and again, Dean would bellow Sam's name into the silence. Faith scanned the trees with her flashlight, but there was no sign of any life, let alone Sam.
Eventually, the town became visible, and Dean's pace picked up, eager to find his brother. Faith wasn't sure she could relate to the feeling – she didn't have a sibling to worry over. The closest she came was Toby, but then again, she was very much aware that Toby could look after himself.
"Sam!" Dean shouted with a renewed fervour.
The town grew close enough that they were weaving through the outer buildings. Faith hated it – everything was old and derelict, creaking ominously in the wind, and she was almost certain they were being watched, the feeling of eyes like an itch on the back of her neck.
They turned a corner and like a miracle, there was Sam. He looked exhausted, limping slightly as he walked, one arm laid awkwardly across his stomach. "Sam!" cried Dean, relief soaking his voice.
"Dean," sighed Sam, sounding just as relieved. The rain began to fall heavier, and Faith lifted her flashlight to beam onto her own face, waving hello with the hand still holding her gun. Sam looked understandably surprised to see her there. "Faith? What're you-?"
Before he could finish, a dark shape came hurtling at him from out of the dark. "Sam, look out!" bellowed Dean, but too late.
A glint of metal, a wet sucking noise followed by Sam's cry of pained surprise, then the dark shape was darting away, disappearing into the looming darkness like a spectre. Dean sprinted to Sam's side, but Faith's attention was on the figure who had just stabbed Sam. So was Bobby.
The two of them took off at a run, following the hazy, indistinct silhouette fleeing through the haunted town. Faith was faster than Bobby, but not faster than the figure. Cursing loudly, she came to a halt, very nearly skidding in the slick mud created by the rain. Righting herself, she braced her feet apart and lifted her gun.
But it didn't matter that she was an expert marksman – not even she could see in the dark. She fired a single round and heard a distant shout, the outline of the figure stumbling slightly, but then they righted themselves just as she had, and continued sprinting into the distance and away.
"Dammit!" Faith screamed.
"Sam!" she heard Dean's voice moan behind her. He sounded beyond frantic – he sounded desperate. Faith froze where she stood, glaring into the shadows and barely daring to breathe.
"Faith," said Bobby.
Swallowing around the lump in her sore throat, Faith accepted the figure was gone and slowly turned around. The rain was coming harder now, beating down on them relentlessly. Her clothes were soaked, hair dripping, but she ignored it all – her focus on Sam's unmoving form, which Dean cradled tight to his body, rocking him back and forth like he were just a sleeping baby.
Dean was muttering something, but the words were lost over the white noise created by the storm. Faith and Bobby approached slowly, hunters trying to avoid spooking a frightened animal. The closer they got, the clearer the situation became, and Faith lifted a hand to cover her trembling mouth.
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean was saying over and over and over again. "We're gonna fix you up. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine. C'mon, just open your eyes, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. You've just gotta wake up—"
It went on like that for several long minutes, the time ticking away and the storm around them picking up, the wind whistling through the barren town. It was frigid against her skin, but Faith was already shaking so hard that she doubted the cold made any difference.
She looked slowly up at Bobby, whose eyes were red and full of pain. Bobby bent down, pressing a gentle hand to Dean's quivering shoulder.
"Dean," he said quietly.
"What're you just standing there for?" Dean roared. "Call a goddamn ambulance!"
"Dean," Bobby tried again. "Son, it's too late."
"You don't know that!" Dean snapped. "Call a fucking ambulance!"
Faith's feet began to move, though she felt like an observer only as she crossed the space between them, kneeling without hesitation in the mud in front of Dean. "Dean," she rasped, and when he looked up, his face was streaked with wet – impossible to say whether it was tears or simple rainwater.
Faith gently reached out, still going slow, so as to not spook him. Dean realised what she was doing and shifted Sam's weight in his arms, giving her access to his brother's throat. Faith already knew what she was going to find, but she pressed her trembling fingertips to Sam's still-warm skin all the same, waiting a long few moments without any hope. Then, her grief like a living, fanged thing within her, she met Dean's eyes and shook her head.
Pain ricocheted across his face. "But there's still time," he croaked, hoarse with his own grief. "Six minutes, right? You can survive six minutes without oxygen—"
"Dean," she said again, his name catching on her numb lips. "Dean, he's gone. I'm so sorry."
She wasn't sure what it was about her delivery that finally shone through Dean's steadfast belief that Sam was going to wake up and that everything was going to be okay, but like a bullet piercing armour, Dean's face crumpled with agony. He buried his face in Sam's neck and began to cry.
Tears burned Faith's eyes, and moving entirely out of instinct, she wrapped her arms around Dean, resting her chin atop the crown of his head and held him as he sobbed in the rain. Sam was dead. How could anything ever be okay again?
A/N: I hope you enjoyed, my loves.
It's been a very rough week for me, in my personal life. Suffered some losses and perhaps a few more to come. Cherish the people in your lives, especially the ones you maybe take for granted. You never know how long you have with them. And also, addiction is a serious disease; be kind, be compassionate, and always be willing to help someone if they're struggling, in any way you can. You never know what might be the thing that saves a life. Love you all.
Next time, we see the fallout of Sam's 'recovery', a reunion with someone Faith thought to be gone, and *gasp* a cliffhanger…