carry on,

The Hudson Valley Beacon newspaper sits between you and Sam “Couple’s throats slashed in own home” written in bold letters right on the front page. You grimace and put your hand on the paper and Sam sighs. “Gruesome, huh?” You nod and he waves at Dean from across the bar. He’s leaning over some girl with that look in his eyes that’s reserved for only securing a hookup and you can almost hear him groaning as he has to walk away. 

He walks over with two beers and although yours is sitting in front of you, now flat and warm, you grab one from his hands. Sam doesn’t seem to notice or care, so you sip on it as it talks. “I think I’ve got something,” he tells his brother. 

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Dean smirks and looks back at the girl at the bar. Her hair is blonde and goes down to the middle of her back and she looks skanky. You don’t say anything. “I think we need to take a little shore leave. Just for a little bit. What do you think, huh?” Dean asks. “I’m so in the door with this one.” All three of you look at her and Sam finds the whole thing amusing as always, so he teases Dean. 

“What are we today, Dean? Rock stars? Amy rangers?” 

“Reality TV scouts. Looking for people with special skills,” Dean replies quickly. The smile on his face grows as you watch him and the words leave your lips just as quickly. 

“And what’s her special skill?” Dean laughs your question away and you roll your eyes as he takes a sip of his beer, nodding it toward the girl at the bar. “We have a case here,” you speak again when he doesn’t acknowledge you. “If you don’t mind paying attention.” Sam chokes a laugh and Dean whips his head toward you. You smile at him and tap the newspaper with your fingers. “Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York were both found dead in their home just a few days ago.” Dean mumbles and looks back at the girl. She waves and throws her hair over her shoulder. You speak louder. “Their throats were slit and there were no fingerprints, no murder weapons,” you continue on but it’s painfully obviously he’s no longer paying attention so you throw your arms across your chest and pout. “I give up,” you say to Sam. 

“Dean?” Sam calls, getting his attention. “No prints. No weapons. All doors and windows were locked from the inside.” 

Dean nods and says, “could just be a garden-variety murder. Who dug this one up? Her?” He laughs and nods his head toward you and you furrow your eyebrows. “Oh, yn, you know I’m teasing. What else you got?” 

“Dad says differently,” Sam pulls the journal from under the newspaper you were looking at. It’s still open to the page you guys were reading earlier. As Sam explains, he points at the map on the page. Three red dots all in the same area of New York. Each a different murder. “First one, 1912. Second one in 1945, and the third in 1970. All the same M.O as the Telescas - the throats were slit.” 

Dean looks down at the page and you can see his brain working behind his eyes. “Still think I don’t know what I’m talking about?” You snap. Dean's eyes flash to you and then back to the paper. 

“It’s worth checking out,” Dean finally agrees. “We can’t pick this up until first thing, though, right?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. Dean smiles, mumbles a great, and darts away from the table. You can hear him from your table and you roll your eyes, pushing yourself away from the back of your chair. 

“He’s relentless,” you complain. Sam laughs and shrugs his shoulders, seemingly unbothered by Dean’s antics. You don’t let it bother you because Sam is smiling at you the way you like and he grabs your hand. 

“Maybe. But at least he’ll be gone all night, right?” 

+++ 

Dean’s hungover the next morning, rolling out of bed barely alive it seems. He throws sunglasses on his face to hide his baggy eyes but you see them and you laugh. “Was she worth it, at least?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He mumbles and pushes past you toward the Impala. The sun is bright and the day is warm and Sam kisses the top of your head where your hair is collecting the heat. 

“What's up with you guys lately?” He asks and you knit your face together and look up at him. “You guys have been short with each other. It’s not normal.” 

“He’s just hungover,” you try to explain it away but it wasn’t the drinking that bothered you or even that he could barely hold a conversation the night before without looking at somebody's ass. It was more than that but you don’t tell Sam that, you just get into the backseat and stay behind Dean so he can’t look at you. 

You go inside the Telesca’s house with Sam and sweep the house with EMF. You check for anything out of the ordinary but there isn’t anything. The house seems perfect except for the fact that it’s completely empty. There isn’t a piece of furniture in sight. “Isn’t that weird? That all their stuff is gone?” You ask Sam as you check the living room for the second time. 

“I guess so. There are no signs of anything paranormal here, though,” he says, looking back up the set of stairs that had nail holes from a stair runner that’s now gone. 

“What if it wasn’t the house but something in it? How are we gonna find it all?” Sam just shrugs and he nods his head for you to leave the house. Dean is passed out in the car, his head leaning against the window. Sam shushes you and holds out his palm telling you to stop moving so you do. You don’t even put your hand on the door handle. Sam can’t help but smile as he reaches his arm inside of his open window and smashes his fist on the horn. Long and hard. It’s so loud it makes you jump but then you laugh at Dean who’s startled awake and strings together a line of profanity. 

“Not cool, man,” he says as you get inside of the car but Sam is just laughing which makes you laugh, too. 

“The house is clean,” you tell Dean. “We check the history of the house last night and there’s no evidence that it’s ever been haunted. Nothing weird about the Telesca’s either.” Dean tips his glasses off his face and sinks further down into his seat. 

“Well if it’s not the house and it’s not the people, then maybe it’s the contents. A cursed object or something,” he suggests. 

“The house is clean,” Sam says again. 

“Yeah, yeah, you said that,” Dean says. 

“No, it's empty. No furniture, nothing,” Sam clarifies. This gets Dean’s attention and he sits up further and you’re hoping for something profound to come out of his mouth to make it make sense but instead he asks the question you both have been thinking the entire time: “where’s all their stuff?” 

It wasn’t really hard to find the estate sale online. It’s a huge attraction it seems: rich family dies young, everything must go. You three stand out like a sore thumb. Not just you and your street clothes but the Impala, too. Every other car is pristine and expensive and the Impala was barely hanging on. Everyone stood around in suits and drinking champagne and they were shopping like it was a fucking furniture store and not dead people’s belongings. It made you shiver. “Estate sales are like garage sales for W.A.S.P.S if you ask me,” Dean complains as he snatches an hors d’oeurve off a waiter. 

“Can I help you three?” A voice booms from behind you and you whip around to an older man wearing a tuxedo and too much gel in his hair. 

Dean smacks his food next to you and you elbow him in the side, making him groan. “I’d like some champagne, please.” 

The man’s face drops, clearly offended by the question and you can hear yourself audibly gasp as you look up at Dean. “He’s not a waiter,” you hiss as Sam introduces himself as Sam Connors this time. 

“This is my brother Dean and our friend YN. we’re art dealers with Connors Limited,” Sam explains. You tug on your t-shirt as you nod. 

“I’m Daniel Blake. This is my auction house. Now, this is a private showing and I don’t remember seeing you on the guest list,” the man says. He looks down at you as his sentence wraps up and you want to recoil into Sam’s chest but you stand up straighter instead. 

“We’re there, Chuckles. Just need to take another look,” Dean says with his mouth full. You pinch his arm and he doesn’t react. A waiter walks up behind you with a tray of champagne and Dean takes one. “Finally.” He sniffs the champagne and Sam tells Daniel Blake cheers and you shuffle away. 

“Are you still drunk?” You hiss at Dean once you’re out of earshot and he laughs, taking a swig of the champagne. 

“No but you should loosen up some,” he suggests. Instead of arguing with him, you grab the glass from his fingers and finish it off. You set it down on an empty tray as you walk by. You can see Dean smirk at you out of the corner of your eye as you walk away from the boys. Your fingers dance on the expensive vases and statues in the room and you wonder how someone can live like this. With so much that they don’t need. “Look at that ugly thing,” Dean mumbles from behind you. You turn around to see a painting almost bigger than you are with a family staring straight back at you. A little girl holding a stuffed bunny and everyone else with a look of distaste written in their eyes.

“A fine example of American primitive, wouldn’t you say?” Someone says from behind you. She’s descending the stairs and hair is pinned up and her dress is all black, hitting right above her ankles and she is beautiful. Dean smacks Sam’s arm and you don’t like her, you decide. 

“Well, I’d say it’s more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses,” Sam says when she reaches the three of you. She laughs and looks down at her feet and you swear she’s blushing. “But you knew that. You just wanted to see if I did.” 

“Guilty,” she says. “And clumsy, I apologize. I’m Sarah Blake.” She sticks her hand out to Sam and when the waiter comes around with more food and champagne, this time, you grab your own. 

“I’m Sam,” he says. “This is Dean and YN,” he introduces you. You smile at her with your mouth full of mini wieners and she looks at you like she’s better than you. 

“Can we get you guys any more food?” Dean shakes his head at her and she turns back to Sam and you can feel your blood boiling inside of you. Your chest tightening and your fist clenching. “So, can I help you with something?” She asks. 

At the same time you blurt out the word no, Sam tells her yes. Everyone looks at you and Sam’s screaming at you with his eyes so you gesture toward him and take a step back. “Sorry about her,” he says with a chuckle to try and ease the tension but it’s still there. You can feel it in your gut. “What can you tell us about the Telesca estate?” 

“The whole thing is pretty grisly if you ask me. Selling their things this soon. But Dad’s right about one thing: sensationalism brings out the crowds. Even the rich ones.” She’s trying to be funny but you don’t laugh because you don’t think she’s funny. Sam smiles. 

“Is it possible to see the provinences?” He asks her.

“I’m afraid there isn't any chance of that,” Daniel Blake says before Sarah has a chance to answer and you’ve never been so glad to get busted in your life. He knows you lied. And he’s here to kick you out and you can finally breathe. 

“Why not?” Sam asks. 

“Because you’re not on the guest list. It’s time for you to leave,” he says. 

“Don’t gotta ask me twice,” you mumble and push between the boys. 

“Apparently you do,” Daniel says. His voice is directed toward you and you snap your head at him and open your mouth and Sam’s voice comes out instead. 

“We don’t want any trouble, we’ll go,” he says. Dean puts his hand on the small of your back and guides you away. 

+++ 

You don’t speak the whole drive to the hotel and thankfully Dean asks the question you were wondering yourself: “Grant Woods. Grandma Roses, what the hell was that all about?” 

“I took an Art History class. It was good for talking to girls,” Sam admits. 

“Yeah, seems to have worked,” you snap. Sam looks at you amused more than anything and you don’t look back at him. You push yourself past Dean and into the room and you hear Dean laugh and say: “it’s like I don’t even know you.” Your feet stop you in your tracks and the boys run into your body. They’re about to start questioning you when their eyes see what you see: a disco-themed hotel room. Black and silver everything: wallpaper, bedding, furniture. There are silver beads hanging from the ceiling and a silver divider made up of circles separates the living space from the sleeping space and in unison, you all mumble “huh.” 

You throw your stuff down on the bed as Dean asks, “what is this providence you asked for?”

“Provenance,” Sam corrects. “It’s a certificate of origin, like a biography, you know? We can use them to track the history of the pieces. See if anything’s got a freaky past.” You unpack your bag as he talks. The wallpaper is starting to hurt your eyes so you lay down on the bed and cover your eyes with your arm.

“Don’t think we’re getting anything out of Chuckles, but, Sarah,” Dean says, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. You peak under your arm at him. 

“What about Sarah?” You ask too loudly. 

“Maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin,” Sam teases, clearly not picking up what Dean was insinuating so you handed it to him on a silver platter.

“Not him, you idiot. You.” Sam looks over at you, shocked but you’re not looking at him. You can’t and don’t want to. 

“No, no, no, no,” Sam says quickly. “Pick-ups are your thing,” he says to Dean. “Besides, we’re together.” Sam knocks his knuckle on the bottom of your shoe and you still don’t look at him. You want to say yes but you don’t. 

“It wasn’t my butt she was checking out,” Dean says, holding his hand to his chest. 

“So what you’re saying is you want me to use her for information?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound particularly averse to the suggestion and now, you look at him. He’s looking at Dean and he’s skeptical. 

“Yes. That’s what we’re saying,” you say. Both boys look at you. Dean more proud than anything and Sam, well, he just looks hurt. “If she likes you, you do what you need to do to get those providences.” 

“Provenances,” Dean corrects you. 

++++

You sit on the edge of the bed, your knee shaking up and down so quickly Dean puts his hand on your thigh to stop you. “Would you stop freaking out?” He doesn’t sound annoyed, just exasperated. 

“Why did I tell him to do that? She was too eager. Did she seem eager to you? Did he?” The questions come flying out of your mouth so fast Dean doesn’t have a chance to answer any of them except for one. 

“Sometimes, you gotta take one for the team,” he says. “That means you, too. I’m sure he didn’t want to go.” 

“What if she wants to kiss him at the end of the night? That’s what you do on dates, right? I wouldn’t know.” You shake your head. You had never been on a real date before. Sure, you hooked up with people before Sam came back around but that was different. You were never taken out. You were never escorted to a fancy table with a candle in the center and then walked to your front door where they kissed you under the ugly fluorescent light of the porch. Kissing is what they did, right? 

“He’s not going to kiss her, would you relax? He loves you.” The word startles you and your head snaps to Dean. “You didn’t know?” He laughs. “Always has. Took you two long enough.” You did know, deep inside. You don’t answer him and your leg starts to shake again but Dean’s hand is still holding you steady. 

“You can move your hand now,” you tell him. 

“Are you going to start bouncing your leg again?” He asks. You nod. “Then I’m not moving my hand.” 

It’s late when Sam finally comes back. Later than you anticipated but you fell asleep on Dean’s lap to the sound of him sharpening a knife. Sam barely wakes you when he comes in but Dean shakes you awake. The tie he was wearing is now off and his shirt is unbuttoned and he’s rifling through some papers. You sit up and away from Dean, suddenly very aware of how close you two are. “Are those them?” You ask. Sam looks at you solemnly and nods. He’s sitting at the table with his back mostly toward you and Dean. His eyes barely catch yours for a moment. 

“She just handed the providences right over?” Dean asks, still sharpening his knife. 

“Provenances.” Sam corrects, again, sounding very tired. 

“Provenances,” Dean tastes the word in his mouth but Sam keeps talking. 

“Yes, we went back to her place. I got a copy of the papers.” he says. Your eyes narrow at him but he doesn’t look up at you. Dean stiffens beside you. 

“And?” He pushes even though you wish he wouldn’t. 

“And nothing. I left.” He says over his shoulder. 

“You didn’t have to con her or do her any special favors?” Dean asks. 

“Would you stop?” You ask him. Dean looks at you and his eyes soften and he mouths I’m sorry and you forgive him. Just like that. He swipes the knife against the sharper. 

“I think I got something here,” Sam says. Dean gets up and walks over to him, taking the papers that Sam flung over his shoulder. He still doesn’t look at you. 

“Portrait of Isaiah Merchant’s family, painted 1910,” Dean reads. 

“Now compare the names of the wonders with Dad’s journal,” Sam tells him. You scramble across the bed to where the journal sits open to the page. It’s like Sam’s brain stores information like this, always keeping it in his back pocket for a rainy day. 

“First purchased in 1912 to Peter Sims,” Dean reads. 

“Peter Sims murdered in 1912,” you read back to him. Dean looks over at you and then back down at the paper in his hands. He crosses the room to you and you show him the book because you know he wouldn’t believe you otherwise. His eye flash from his paper to the journal and back again. “Same thing in 1945?” You ask. Dean nods. “1970?” He nods again. 

“Then stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month, where the Telesca’s bought it,” Sam says. He throws one of his legs over his knee and rests his ankle on it, grabbing at the ends of his jeans. He’s smug and normally you’d like it but right now it makes you mad. 

“So what? Is it haunted? Cursed?” You ask Dean. He juts out his lower lip in thought and bobs his head from side to side. 

“Either way, it’s toast.”

Your leg bounced up and down anxiously waiting for Dean to come back to the hotel. Sam ran his hand through his hair, tugging on the ends in frustration. Your palms began to sweat and you were eager. Eager to put this son of a bitch down once and for all.

Dean burst through the door then and you jumped to your feet, rushing over to him. "What happened?" You can only imagine how Dean reacted when he found out Dr. Hydaker was the Shtriga. You bet that vein on the side of his forehead popped out.

"You know, I can't believe we didn't see this before," Sam said before Dean could answer. You glanced back at him. He was right. How did you not see it? "Doctor is the perfect disguise."

"Did you keep it together?" You ignored Sam and asked the other brother, looking up at him. His eyes softened just a little bit and he nodded his head. He was sweating. You could see the drops slowly making their way down his neck.

"Yeah, I kept it together. Of course, I kept it together."

"Not of course you kept it together, remember when you found out the shapeshifter was the bartender in Denver? You tackled him across the bar," you reminded him. Dean chuckled and rubbed his face with his hand.

"Yeah, yeah. That was a bar, I'm not gonna open fire in a pediatrics ward," he said. You let him pass you and he took off his jacket, throwing it on the bed with force.

"You tackled a shapeshifter over a bar?" Sam asked, suddenly intrigued. You went to the bathroom and grabbed a rag from the hotel closet. Probably a pile of unwashed, unused towels that have been sitting there for ages. You ran it under cold water and when Dean turned back around, you handed it to him. He mumbled "thanks" and dabbed the sweat away before throwing the towel down the same way he threw his jacket.

"That's beside the point," Dean grumbled. "It wouldn't have done any good. The thing is basically bulletproof unless he's chowing down on something. And third," he paused, glancing over at you, "I wasn't packing which is probably a good thing because I probably would have burned a clip in him."

You chuckled softly and he shook his head, glaring at you from across the room. You picked up his sweaty towel and threw it in the bathroom with the rest of the used towels from all the showers you three have been taking. You were surprised you didn't call for housekeeping yet so you made a note to do that. Then, you decided that was futile.

"You're getting wise in your old age," you tease. A small smile played on his lips and then it disappeared.

"I think I know how we're gonna get it," he said.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. He was leaning against the kitchenette counter, his muscles popping out of his t-shirt. His eyebrows furrowed and before Dean even spoke, you knew what he was going to say.

"The Shtriga works through siblings, right?"

"No," you interrupted. "No."

Dean snapped his head over to you and you felt your breathing catch in your throat. It wasn't often you two disagreed, or argued, or anything, really. You always went along with what he said because he was usually right, but he couldn't be this time. You couldn't do that.

"You think it's gonna go after Michael tonight?" Sam asked. His eyes danced between you and Dean. Neither of you spoke. The silence filled in the dots for the younger brother, anyway. "We gotta get him out of there," he said.

"That'd blow the whole plan, wouldn't it, Dean?" His name all of a sudden felt like tasted like acid coming out of your mouth.

"You wanna use the kid as bait?" Sam sounded just as appalled as you did, and you were grateful that he had your back. It was easier that way. Dean shrugged and looked at his brother, breaking the eye contact with you. "That's completely out of the question, are you insane? No."

"Sam, it's the only way - if this thing disappears, it could be years before we get another chance." Dean's voice was raising and you were glad it wasn't at you but you felt the need to finish the argument that you started.

"He's a kid, Dean. We can't just dangle him in front of that thing like a worm on a hook," you take a few steps forward, inserting yourself into an argument you'd otherwise run away from. The boys yelling at each other always made you want to hide under the covers and disappear.

"Dad didn't send me here to walk away," Dean said through gritted teeth. His face was turning red and there was that vein.

"Send you here? He didn't send you here. He sent us here," Sam said, gesturing between you three. A team. You were a team. You and the boys. When was Dean going to remember that?

"This isn't about either of you," Dean snapped. He turned away from his brother and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm the one that screwed up. There's no telling how many kids have gotten hurt because of me. This is my fault!"

Your lips parted and your mouth fell agape, watching him walk to the window. Your hand wanted to reach out to him but you stopped yourself. "How is that your fault?" You croaked out, your voice barely above a whisper. Too scared to make him crack.

He didn't speak and Sam signed impatiently. You didn't look at him, but you wanted to send him a glare. Tell him to shut up. "Dean, you've been hiding something from the get-go. Since when does Dad bail on a hunt?" Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. "Since when does he let something get away?"

Dean turned around and sat down on the couch and your feet carried you to him. You sat down next to him and put your hand on his shoulder. He didn't immediately brush you away, which was a good sign you thought, so you pushed your luck. "Dean, he's right. You've been acting weird this whole trip. Talk to us," you begged. Talk to me, you thought. You had a pang of resentment for Sam. Dean was never this shut down before Sam came back. You swallowed that feeling and shook it away.

"Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. It was the third night in a crappy room and I was climbing the walls, man. I needed to get some air," Dean started to speak. You could almost feel his heart race speed up as he spoke. "You were sleeping, Sammy, I didn't think - I didn't think that it would come for you. I didn't even know what Dad was hunting, you know? I came back and there it was. I was gonna shoot it, I swear, but Dad came back and he tried to kill it but the thing ran. He just grabbed us and booked after that," he finished.

You always had a soft spot for John Winchester. After all, he did take you in after your mother died. He helped you move past your grief, him and the boys. You knew he was hard on Dean. You always knew that but hearing it made your skin crawl.

"He dropped us off at Pastor Jim's three hours away and by the time he got back to Fort Douglas the thing was gone," Dean added. You squeezed his shoulder and he looked over at you. His eyes were soft and his hand landed on your knee.

"That's not your fault, Dean," you whispered.

He ignored you and kept talking, tears pooling around his eyes. "Dad never spoke about it again. I never asked but he looked at me different, which was worse. You know? Not that I blame him. He gave me an order, and I didn't listen, and I almost got you killed."

"You were just a kid," Sam said from where he stood in the kitchen. When you looked at him, his eyebrows were furrowed. You could see it under his hair that always fell in front of his eyes. He was rubbing his palms on his biceps out of stress.

"Don't. Don't," Dean scolded. He didn't look over at his brother. You wondered if he could even bare it. "Dad knew this was unfinished business for me and he sent me here to finish it."

"But using Michael? I don't know, Dean. What if one of us hides under the covers?" Sam suggested. You sighed and leaned back against the couch, letting your hand fall down off Dean's shoulder. Your fingertips brushed down his back and you could have sworn he shivered. He squeezed your knee and you prayed Sam didn't see. You looked up at him and his eyes were focused elsewhere.

"It won't work. It's gotta get close enough to feed. It'll see us," Dean said. He did have a point and you hated that your heart almost agreed with him. You didn't want to, so you pushed it down. "I don't like it, either. But, it's got to be the kid."

"Fine," you agreed. The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth and Sam looked at you like you were crazy. His eyes went from yours to your lips to your eyes again and then to your knee. "He's right, Sam."

"He's right? There's got to be another way," he argued. You shook your head and your leg started to bounce again and Dean pressed his pam into your skin making you stop.

"There isn't," you said.

+

You decided to leave it up to Dean to convince Michael to help you. It sounded insane if you put yourself in Michael's shoes. Clearly, he thought so, too, because he was holding up the phone in the hotel lobby and threatening to call the police. "You have to believe me, okay?" Dean begged. "This thing came through the window and attacked your brother. I've seen it, I know what it looks like 'cause it attacked my brother once, too." Michael looked between Dean, then Sam, and then you. You nodded your head, hoping it would reassure him, and then he slowly put the phone down.

"This thing - is it like, it has this long black robe?" Michael asked. Your heart jumped. His nose crumbled up in fear.

"You've seen it?" Dean asked, answering his question with his own.

"I thought I was having a nightmare," Michael said, averting his eyes away.

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

"So why are you telling me?" Michael asked. His eyes were glassed over and you were surprised he was reacting so well. You often think back to when you first learned about the monsters under the bed and you weren't nearly this composed. You remember yelling curse words at a Winchester or two.

"Because we need your help," Dean explained.

"My help?"

"We can kill it, the three of us, it's what we do. But we need your help to do it."

"What? No."

"Michael, listen to me, this thing hurt Asher. It's gonna keep hurting kids unless we stop it. Do you understand me?" Dean reminded you of John at that moment. When he would tell Dean what to do on hunts. Sometimes, you were reminiscent of those times. When John was in charge and you felt like a kid and sometimes, when Dean didn't feel the need to protect everyone and everything, he felt like a kid, too.

In the end, Michael said no to helping you. His face scrunched up and a tear fell down his cheek and he told you to get out and this time, you did.

In the hotel room, you wrapped one of the too-thin sheets around your shoulders and plopped yourself down next to Sam in defeat. He couldn't help but chuckle at Dean, who was rightfully upset that he couldn't convince Michael to help. "What did you expect?" Sam asked. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his chest and you happily settled in. "You can't expect an adult to do something like that, much less a kid."

"He has a point, you know," you tell Dean. He looked between you and Sam and you wanted to push him away from you but you didn't.

"So now you're on his side? Pick on, YN."

You were stunned. You straightened your shoulders and Sam's grip tightened. "There are no sides, Dean. We're a team. Teams don't have sides," you snap. Dean let out a sigh and shook his head, turning away from you.

"You're right. I'm sorry," Dean mumbled just as a knock sounded on the door. Dean stiffened, you could see it in his shoulders, and then he answered the door. You could see the blonde hair on Michael's head peaking out from behind Dean. You stood, Sam's arm falling on the bed and you let the blanket drop. He had changed his mind.

"If you kill this thing, will Asher get better?" Michael asked.

Dean glanced back at you before replying, "honestly, we don't know."

"You said you're a big brother?" Michael asked. Dean nodded his head. "You'd take care of your little brother? You'd do anything for him?" You felt Sam's hand grip yours and you let him hold it as Dean nodded his head again. "Me too. I'll help."

+

In the living room of Michael's house, you set up Sam's laptop which was connected to a night vision camera that Dean was installing in the boy's room. Sam sat down next to you, instructing Dean on where exactly to place the camera. You needed to see the window. Michael was tucked in his bed, instructed to stay under the covers and not to move.

"Do you think this is gonna work?" You ask Sam. You can hear Dean giving Michael instructions, telling him about the guns you have strapped in all your jeans. There was John's voice again, coming from Sam's speakers.

"It has to, right?" He replied. You nodded your head and then laid it on Sam's shoulder. You hated this. You felt like it was twisting your insides. The later it got, the worse you felt. 10pm. 11pm. Midnight. It was now 3am and you were starting to question if the Shtriga would even show up and you hoped that Michael was sound asleep.

"You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?" You asked, running your fingertip along the neck of the gun you held in your lap. It was starting to make an indent in your hip, so you took it out. Dean made sure the safety was on before he let you put it on your lap.

"They're consecrated iron rounds," Dean corrected. "And yeah, it's what Dad used last time." His voice was cold and concentrated and when Sam spoke next, his voice was the complete opposite.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You know, I've given you a lot of crap about always following Dad's orders, but I know why you do it," Sam said. Dean groaned and Sam chuckled and you squeezed Sam's hand. It was always about Sam.

The display on the laptop had been the same the entire night, but something moved in the frame that caught Dean's attention, seemingly just in time for the Winchester heart-to-heart. "What is that?" Dean asked, leaning into the screen. You and Sam leaned forward, too. It wasn't the tree branches, although its fingers were thin and gangly like the ones outside of the hotel. As it crept its way to the window sill, you grabbed your gun and the boys grabbed theirs, cocking them. You felt like you had to move as if you were walking on shattered glass. One false move and Dean would be a failure. You couldn't fail. Not for him.

"Now?" Sam asked as the Shtriga loomed over Michael's body. The boy was awake, shaking under the covers. Dean's face was focused and he was waiting for the right moment. He shushed his brother.

"Not yet," he said. The Shtriga needed to be feeding. That was the only way but your intestines twisted once more.

"You guys go, I'll watch the camera, okay? Tell you when," you whispered. Dean nodded, agreeing with your plan and the boys inched off the couch, carefully tip-toeing to the bedroom door. They didn't dare cross the threshold. They didn't dare breathe.

You held onto your gun tightly, watching the camera as if your life depended on it. But it wasn't your life, it was Michael's. It was Asher's. It was all the little kids that may come after if you fail. You focused so hard, so intently, everything around you went black. It felt like you were watching in slow motion. The Shtriga took one step. Two steps. Three steps until its face was inches away from Michael's. Not now. Not now. Not now. It reached for its hood and you waved the boys forward, your feet not far behind.

The guns started going off and you caught a glimpse of Michael rolling under the bed. The shots fired until the Shtriga was on the ground. "Michael, are you okay?" You called when it was quiet.

"Yeah," he called back. A breath you didn't know you were holding, expelled itself from your lungs and your shoulders dropped. You tell him not to move and Dean goes forward to investigate the Shtriga. When it didn't move, his shoulders relaxed.

Something inside you was aching, something was not right. "Dean," you started to tell him but the Shtriga was no longer laying lifeless on the ground, it was going after Dean and you didn't hesitate but to shoot. It barely flinched, throwing Dean across the room and then flying at you and Sam. A scream escaped your lips as Sam threw himself in front of you, the Shtriga wrapping its twig-like fingers around his neck. Sam struggled to reach for his gun and you could've started to shoot. You probably should have started to shoot, but John's voice was in your ears. It has to be feeding, he said. So you waited. You waited until Sam was no longer struggling and the Shtriga was taking his essence and then you called out for it and when it looked up, you shot it right between the eyes.

The Shtriga fell to the ground, for good this time, and you dropped to your knees next to Sam's head. "Are you okay?" You asked. He coughed but gave you a thumbs up anyway and you couldn't help but muster a smile.

"You okay, little brother?" Dean asked as he pushed himself off the floor. Wooden planks from the bookshelf he was tossed into were all around him but he smoothed out his jacket like nothing had happened. You helped Sam up and you smoothed out the pieces of hair that live in front of his eyes and he hugged you. Your whole body shook when Dean put three more bullets into the Shtriga behind your back. "Just for good measure," he said.

Michael peaked his head out from the top of the bed, watching as the three of you tried to catch your breath. "It's ok, Michael. You can come out now," Dean said. The boy stood up and walked over to you but he didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. His gratefulness was written on his face.

+

You wanted to wait until Asher was home, but you knew you couldn't linger for that long. After you got some rest, it was time to pack the Impala. You tried to wash off the night before in the shower, but you ran out of normal towels so you slept in your sweat. At sometime in the night, your sweat and Sam's mixed together and you woke up smelling like sex despite not having any. You didn't have any clothes that didn't smell like him.

As fate would have it, the boys' mom pulled into the parking lot as Dean was finishing packing the car. You were surprised to see Michael dart out the front door, but maybe that meant he actually got some sleep after you left. Dean slept on the couch outside of Michael's room last night, dipping out before the sun reached the highest point in the sky.

"How's Ash?" Michael asked his mom.

"He's going to be fine. They can't explain it, but he's going to be fine," she said, a smile plastered to her face. "It's a miracle."

Dean smiled over at you and Sam and you smiled back. You were happy for him, how could you not be?

"They're gonna keep him overnight for observation and then he can come home," she explained as he smoothed down her son's hair.

"That's great," Dean said.

"How are the other kids doing?" You asked.

"Really good," she replied. "A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis said the ward is going to be like a ghost town." You let out a sigh of relief, Sam squeezing your arm next to you. You smiled up at him and he bumped his shoulder against yours.

"Dr. Travis? What about Dr. Hydaker?" Dean asked.

"He wasn't in today, must have been sick or something," she told you. In the end, he was right there in front of you all along. You wished you could go back and know from the beginning but when it all turns out okay, those are the good days so you tried not to sit with your regrets.

Michael and his mom headed back to the hospital and you turned around to the passenger side of the car, your hand on the handle waiting for Dean to unlock it. "You know, it's too bad," Sam sighed as he followed you.

"They'll be fine," Dean said.

Sam leaned forward, putting his arms on the hood of the car and he looked over it at his brother. "No, Michael. He'll always know there are things out there in the dark. He'll never be the same." Dean hadn't seemed to consider that thought before and maybe it was because this life, the things in the dark, was all he ever knew.

"Sometimes I wish that I didn't know," you admitted. You never said that aloud before, probably because you weren't sure if you meant it or not. The things that went bump in the night were scary. The hotels were uncomfortable. Sitting in the car for too long was hard on your back. But you had the boys. Wasn't that enough?

"You do?" Dean asked, sharpness in his voice. You shrugged and looked down at your old shoes.

"Sometimes I wish I had that innocence. Don't you?" Sam added. You tapped your toe against his but didn't look up.

"I guess if it means anything, sometimes I wish you both could, too." You looked up now. Dean's eyes were tired and his facial expressions were soft, you wanted to reach out to him but he opened the car door and tucked himself inside, and then the feeling was gone.

"I know why Dad sent us here," Dean finally said. He had been looking at the rotted handprint for more seconds than you felt necessary but when he pushed away from the window, you were intrigued. "He's faced this thing before and he wants us to finish the job."

When Sam was too young to know any better, John went on another hunt. He never really told Dean much, except how to protect himself and Sam, but he left evidence around and Dean wasn't much of a reader, but he read that. The photos of the rotted handprints, the printed news articles of cases, and the lore were all spread over the table.

"What the hell is a Shtriga?" Sam asked, slamming the Impala door as soon as Dean parked in the motel parking lot. That was what the lore said it was, Dean remembered.

"Kind of like a witch, I think. I don't know much about them."

Dean unlocked the trunk of the car and opened it up, the metal creaking from the pressure. "I've never heard of it," Sam argued. "And, it's not in Dad's journal." Sam must have read that thing front to back more times than you could count, so you believed him when he said that.

"Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about 16 or 17 years ago. You don't remember?" Dean was shoving guns and clothes into a duffle bag and glanced at his brother. Sam shook his head. "I guess he caught wind that the thing's in Fitchburg now and kicked us the coordinates."

"So you think this," you paused.

"Striga."

"Is the same one that John hunted before?" You finished.

"Maybe," Dean replied and shut the trunk door. You both looked at each other and you tried to read his eyes. His face. Anything to give you a hint about what he was thinking. But all you saw was how serious he was. So, you believed him.

Dean finally broke your eye contact and started walking toward your motel room and Sam chased after him. "If Dad went after it, why is it still breathing air?"

"Must have gotten away," Dean said nonchalantly. He was carrying his duffle bag of supplies and turned around when Sam began to argue. You stopped in your tracks, bumping into his back gently. "I don't know what to tell you, Sammy. Maybe Dad didn't have his Wheaties that morning.

He started to walk away and Sam called after him, "what else do you remember?"

"Nothing, I was a kid," Dean replied as he walked through the door to the motel. You looked up at Sam, who had a gentle grin on his face and despite what you'd have thought, he didn't seem annoyed by anything.

"You think he knows something?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest and peering up at him. He looked good, you had to admit. It wasn't often that you were able to admire him from up close, but the way the red light from the VACANY sign was lit up, made him look good.

"Maybe," he said, leaning back against the Impala and holding out his hands for you. You took them, hesitating only a little bit but he noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you lied. Something about being affectionate in public was putting you off and you didn't know why. You laced your fingers between his and he pulled you closer to him. You were at the perfect height where he could put his chin on the top of your head, which he did effortlessly.

"We should start asking for our own room," he teased. You laughed and pushed yourself off of his chest, hitting it playfully.

"Dean would never." Sam chuckled, leaned over to you, and kiss you.

+

"You were right," Sam admitted. You were sprawled out on your stomach next to him on the bed. You were kicking your feet gently and watching Sam research, offering suggestions few and far between. Just enough to seem useful. "It wasn't easy, but you were right. A Striga is a kind of witch. They're Albanian, but legends about them date back to ancient Rome. They feed off of spirits vitae."

"Spirit what?" You echoed, leaning in closer to read the article. Dean laughed from the other side of the room. He was flipping through news articles.

"Vitae. It's Latin. It translates to breath of life," Sam explained, looking down at you with a slight smirk on his lips. You pretended not to notice and just nodded your head.

"Didn't the doctors say the kids' bodies were wearing out?" Dean asked, writing down notes in his little notepad with his little number 2 pencil that you always teased him about.

"It's a thought," you said, tilting your head slightly. "She takes your vitality, maybe your immunity goes to hell and pneumonia takes hold."

Sam nodded and went back to his computer, scrolling a little bit. "They can feed off of anything, but they prefer-"

"Children," Dean interrupted curtly. You looked over at him and he wasn't even looking up.

"Yeah, probably because they have a stronger life force. And get this - Shrtigas are invulnerable to all weapons devised by God and man." Sam read from his computer.

"No, that's not right," Dean said. He shut the notebook he was writing in and walked his duffle bag, taking out John's notebook. "She's vulnerable when she feeds."

"What?" You and Sam echoed together. Suddenly, Dean seemed to be the expert on Shtrigas and you wondered what kind of reading he was doing over there.

"If you catch her when she's eating, you can blast her with concentrated wrought irons, buckshot, or rounds I think." He flipped open John's notebook so whatever page he was looking for, potentially more information about the Shtriga but you remember combing through that book over and over again and never seeing anything.

"How do you know that?" You asked, sitting up on the bed. One leg was thrown over the side and the other sat comfortably under you and you felt Sam looking at your exposed collarbone.

"Dad told me. I remember," Dean said. He glanced up at you and then looked at his brother before adverting his eyes back to the book.

"Anything else Dad might have mentioned?" Sam asked.

"No. That's it." When neither of you said anything, he looked back up with wide eyes "What?" He snapped, throwing his hands up in the air slightly. You looked over at Sam and he shrugged, looking back at the computer.

"So, assuming we can kill it when it eats, we've still got to find the thing first, which ain't gonna be a cakewalk. Shtrigas take a human disguise when they're not hunting," Sam said. He got off the bed, making the mattress bounce back to its normal height without all of his weight on it. He went to the bar.

"What kind of human disguise?" You asked.

"Historically, something innocuous. It could be anything, but it's usually a feeble old woman, which may be how the witches-as-old-crones legend got started." He picked up a glass and tilted it toward you, silently offering you a drink. You shook your head and he poured one for himself.

"Wait-" Dean said, grabbing the map off the little dining room table that was barely big enough for one person. He walked over to you at the bed and showed it to you. "I marked down all the houses that have been hit so far and dead center." Dean pointed to the map. "The hospital," you two said in unison.

"I saw a patient there. An old woman," you told him. He looked down at you and searched your eyes. You didn't know what for, but he kept looking like maybe he would find the answer somewhere in them.

"An old person, huh?" Sam said. You sensed the sarcasm in his voice from across the room. You and Dean both looked at him. "In a hospital? Better call the coast guard." He spoke as he set the bottle down.

"She had an inverted cross on the wall," you replied. Sam's body froze just enough for it to be noticeable and he looked back at you. You raised your eyebrows at him and he nodded.

"Okay then."

At the hospital, you lead the way to the room where you saw the old woman. The janitor was buffing the floor, making the noise reverberated through the walls. "Have a good night, Dr. Hydaker." You stopped, the boys bumping into your back and you shushed them back a few steps just as Dr. Hydaker walked past.

When the coast was clear, you turned the corner down the familiar hallway. "That one," you said, pointing to the door. Dean pulled out his gun and stepped in front of you. Sam put his hand on the doorknob. When they exchanged a knowing nod, Sam pushed open the door.

The room was dark and the familiar white hair was draped over the back of her wheelchair. She had not moved since the last time you saw her. Sam shut the door behind you and you both pulled out your own guns as Dean moved forward to investigate. As he got closer to her, she whipped her head around. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean flew back against the dresser, making it shake under him. You jumped, bumping into Sam's chest. He instinctively put his hands on your waist. "What are you doing in here? You trying to steal my stuff?" Sam flipped on the light and you all put your guns away. She was clearly just an old lady and you were wrong. "They're always stealing around here."

"No, ma'am, we're maintenance. We're sorry. We thought you were sleeping," Sam stuttered through his words, searching for whatever excuse he could think of. The old woman was shaking, thrashing her head around like she was trying to see something. She was blind.

"Ah, nonsense. I was sleeping with my peepers open," she scolded. You relaxed a little bit and leaned against the closed door. Your breathing was heavy, it was making your chest heave up and down faster than you could control. "Now fix that crucifix, would you? I've asked four damn times already."

Dean was standing in front of it, so he turned around and hesitantly flipped it right side up. It had twisted on its own. The cross waved back and forth as if it was waving. Ha ha, you loser.

+

The drive home, Sam couldn't contain himself. The jokes kept rolling of his tongue and you couldn't help but take offense to it, at least a little bit.

"I really thought I had something," you argue. All of you had made mistakes before. It wasn't the first time and certainly wouldn't be the last, but something about the old lady was making Sam turn into a comedian.

"I was sleeping with my peepers open," Sam laughed, repeating what the old lady said. We were pulled back into the hotel parking lot and the Impala door creaked as Sam opened it.

"I almost smoked that old gal, I swear," Dean mumbled to himself. he found the situation just as funny as you, which was not very funny, but Sam continued to cackle.

"You should have seen your face," Sam laughed, fumbling with the hotel room keys.

"It's not funny, we're back to square one," you remind him as he gets the door unlocked. Dean was beside you, but he stopped moving and his gaze was caught elsewhere. "What are you looking at?" You asked, following his gaze over his shoulder. The little boy from check-in was sitting outside on a bench a few feet away.

"Hold on," Dean said. He started down the parking lot, you and Sam following him without contest. The boy was crying when Dean kneeled down to his level. "What's going on?"

"It's my brother. He's sick," the boy replied, sniffling the snot back up his nose and wiping it off with his sleeve.

"The little guy?"

The little boy nodded. "Pneumonia. It's my fault."

"Come on, how?"

"I should have made sure the window was latched. He wouldn't have gotten pneumonia," the boy said. Dean turned to look up at you and Sam, a knowing look in his eyes. That little boy was next. You looked over at Sam and he shifted on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. A nervous habit.

"Listen to me," Dean started. "I promise you, this is not your fault. Okay?"

"It's my job to look after him."

Dean's shoulders stiffened and you knew if you could see his face, he'd have a distant look in his eyes and you knew why the little boy caught his eye only a minute ago. You knew why he lingered a little longer in the hotel lobby when the same little boy checked you in. He reminded Dean of himself.

Before anyone could say anything, his mom came out of the lobby with pillows in her hand and a bag over her shoulder. "Michael," she said. The boy stood at attention as his mom threw her stuff in the trunk of her car. "I want you to turn the No Vacancy sign on while I'm gone. I've got Denise covering room service, so don't bother with any of the rooms," she said.

"I'm going with you!" He protested.

"Not now, Michael."

"But I gotta see Asher," he cried out. His mom just kept stuffing things in the trunk.

"Hey, Michael," Dean interrupted. He stepped closer to Michael and the boy looked up at him. "I know what you're going through. I'm a big brother, too, but you got to go easy on your mom right now, okay?"

Michael's mom slammed the trunk shut and her purse fell off her shoulder. "Damn it," she cursed. You rushed to the ground and picked up her purse. She mumbled a thank you under her breath.

"Let us give you a lift to the hospital," Dean offered. Either he really took pity on this family, or he wanted more information on Asher. Maybe a little bit of both. She started to protest, but Dean insisted and he reluctantly gave him her keys before kissing her son on his blonde mop of a head.

The woman got in her car and when the door was shut, Dean walked over to you and Sam. "I want this thing dead, you hear me? We're gonna kill it," he said. He never sounded more sure of himself. You almost started spilling out all the reasons why it was probably not possible. Starting with the fact that if John couldn't kill it, you probably couldn't either. And then there was the fact that it was pretty much immune to everything except when it feeds. The only thing you really had going for you was that you knew where it's next victim was going to be and it just so happened to be a few windows down from your own.

When the car pulled off, Michael ran back inside the lobby. Sam wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his chest. You wanted to run after Michael. Console him while he cried but you also needed to be right here. Sam smoothed down the hair on your head, no doubt a frizzy mess, and when you looked up at him he was faintly smiling. "What?" You asked.

"Might not be a good time but," he trailed off and ended his sentence with a kiss. Gentle and soft. "I've been waiting all day to do that."

"Me too," you admitted. "But we need to figure out how to kill this thing before it gets that little boy." Sam nodded in agreement and you wasted no time getting back in the Impala and going to the library.

The computer room was dark, the only light was coming from Sam's computer. You flipped through textbooks that you pulled, thinking there might be some information buried in them and Sam filed through news articles trying to find similar articles. There was a lot. A lot of cities were plagued with the same tragedies as this one.

Sam called Dean when you had enough information to tell. He put you on speaker, planting the phone between you on the table. When Dean answered, your first question was about Asher.

"Not good. Where you guys at?" Dean answered.

"The library. We're trying to find as much as we can about this Shtriga," Sam told him. When Dean asked what you found, Sam told him. "We started with Fort Douglas around the time you said Dad was there and same deal. Before that, there was Odgenville. Before that, North Haverbook and Brockway. Every 15 to 20 years, it hits a new town."

"It looks like it's just getting started in Fitchburg," you said, looking over at the computer screen. Sam flipped through hundreds of articles all from the same town. A new one every day for months. "There are dozens of kids. Just languish in comas and then die before the Shtriga moves on."

"How far back does this go?" Dean asked. The earliest you could find was in Black River Falls in 1890. Sam didn't spend too much time reading about it since it had the least amount of information, but since Dean was asking, Sam flipped back to it.

"Talk about a horror show," you mumbled under your breath when Sam pulled up the front cover of the Fitchburg Chronicle from 1983. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," you whispered. Sam's mouth fell agape and Dean was asking questions over the phone, frantic when no one replied.

"We're looking at a newspaper photo of a bunch of doctors surrounding a kid," Sam started.

You didn't let him finish his sentence before blurting out: "One of those doctors is Dr. Hydaker."