#devils trap

  “What are you doing, Dean?” Sam asks.

  Dean grabs his duffle bag, the movement quick and harsh. “We gotta go.”

  “Why?” 

 “‘Because the demon knows we’re in Salvation, alright. It knows we got the Colt. It’s got Dad- it’s probably coming for us next.”

  “Good. We’ve still got three bullets left. Let it come,” Sam reasons.

  “That’s a horrible idea,” I interject.

  “We’re not ready, okay?” Dean adds, his voice far harsher than mine. “We don’t know how many of them are out there. Now, we’re no good to anybody dead. We’re leaving now!”

**********

  The Impala speeds down the road, my body jerking as a sharp turn is made. 

  “I’m telling you, Dean, we could have taken him,” Sam says.

  “Right, because three bullets against an army makes total sense,” I remark, rolling my eyes at his insistence.

  “You don’t know that he wouldn’t have shown up himself,” he argues.

  “Why would he?” I counter. “It would be better and smarter to send other demons in to take the bullets than himself and—”

  “And we need a plan,” Dean cuts our arguing off. “Now, they’re probably keeping Dad alive, we just gotta figure out where. They’re gonna wanna trade him for the gun.”

  Sam shakes his head, prompting a “What?” from his brother.

  “Dean, if that were true, why didn’t Meg mention a trade?” His voice breaks as he continues, “Dad, he might be…”

  “Don’t!” Dean barks.

  “If they kill him, then they lose any leverage they currently have,” I point out, fearing I sound more matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic.

  “That’s not a guarantee,” Sam shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to believe it any more than you. But if he is, all the more reason to kill this damn thing. We still have the Colt. We can still finish the job.”

  “Screw the job, Sam!” He shouts.

  “Dean, I’m just trying to do what he would want. He would want us to keep going.”

  “Quit talking about him like he’s dead already,” Dean grumbles. “Listen to me, everything stops until we get him back, you understand me? Everything.”

  The car falls into a beat of silence, the lack of usual music becoming painfully obvious. “So how do we find him?” Sam gives in.

  “Maybe we go to Lincoln. Start at the warehouse where he was taken,” He suggests.

  “Come on, Dean, you really think these demons are going to leave a trail?” Sam questions.

  Another pause envelopes the quiet car. “You’re right. We need help.”

**********

  “I told you I should’ve waited in the car,” I mumble, my hands raised above my head as a shotgun is pointed directly at my chest by an older bearded man in a baseball cap.

  “Bobby, look, she’s cool. She’s not gonna do anything,” Dean reasons, trying to get his friend to stand down. His concern is sweet, but this situation is, frankly, more annoying than it is scary. If this wasn’t a dear family friend of theirs, I probably would’ve done something already.

  “Heard you were running around with a witch but I thought they were jus’ bein’ bitches,” he remarks, his bluntness amusing despite the predicament. 

  “No, Bobby, this is our friend Y/N. We’ve talked about her before, remember?” Sam tries.

  “Yeah, Dean—” He gets cut off by a sharp look from the man in question. “But you never mentioned she was one of ‘em,” he continues. 

  The words should hurt, and the othering should feel like a stab in the gut, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to the expected reaction. The Winchesters have always been the only hunters I’ve known, it’s always been safer that way. And yet, just knowing them was enough exposure to the reaction I would receive for being what I am. The boys never gave me crap for it, except for that one time when I was around twelve and Dean had called me some horrible things. And maybe I was, or am, a pushover, but I couldn’t, and still can’t, find it in myself to hate him for that. We were kids, and for all I know, it could’ve been from John’s beliefs and everything else that was put onto him. But, John? Him I can despise. Maybe that’s biased and stupid, but he also hated a child. Even now, he still can’t stand me or trust me, even though I’ve done nothing to give him that impression. Then there’s all the stuff he put my boys through, but that’s another story.

  Regardless, I learned. I know how to hide who I am, and in the case I can’t, then I know how to show I’m harmless. “Look, we’re just here for some help. If it makes you feel better, you can get some iron and cuff me up ‘till we leave,” I offer. Yet, the thought makes me feel sick. Bile burning in my throat the same way the metal had dug into my skin—

  “No one is cuffing you,” Dean says sharply, shutting the idea down fast. 

  “But you can get the help you guys want and—”

  “No,” he says firmly, cutting me off before I have the chance to say anything more.

  “Dean…” Sam says with a frown, as if feeling bad for agreeing with me. I know he’s probably not so fond of the idea, but considering the situation, it seems like the better option.

  “No! No one is touching her!” He shouts, his voice powerful against the wooden walls of the house. The words hang in the air as if embedding themselves into the groves of the wood, each figure grasping it within its curl as if holding it close so that it could repeat the words to itself in the dark of night. 

  Bobby stares at him, his expression unreadable. And for some reason, he lowers his gun. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But if you try anythin’, this boy vouchin’ for you won’t be able to protect you.”

  I nod, lowering my arms back to my side, a slight ache lingering in my biceps. “Yes, sir.”

*********

  Dean had insisted on me staying right by his side even though everything had cooled over, and I could have been doing something productive like helping Sam go through the many books that surrounded him. But, no, I stay right by Dean's side. 

  Bobby left the gun in arm's reach on the table we stand over, lying down with the mouth of it facing me. I suppose I can’t blame him for being paranoid, as annoying as it is. He holds up two round silver flasks with crosses on them and hands one to Dean. “Here you go,” he says.

  “What is this–holy water?” Dean asks.

  “That one is,” he answers, holding up the other flask. “This is whiskey.” He takes a swig from the flask and hands it to Dean, who also drinks, his head tilted back a little. My eyes trace the column of his throat. He doesn’t react to the liquor, no grimace or scrunch of the nose. He tilts the flask at me, offering me some, too, but I shake my head.

  He hands the whiskey back. “Bobby, thanks. Thanks for everything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure we should come.”

  “Nonsense,” he answers, his voice like a permanent grumble. “Your Daddy needs help.”

  “Well, yeah, but last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything,” Dean reveals.

  I wonder what John did to warrant getting a gun pointed at him. Though, something’s amusing about that image: someone finally so sick of his bullshit that they pulled one on him. I’m sure it didn’t take long for John to piss Bobby.

  “Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people,” Bobby answers. 

  I laugh before I can stop myself, not yet used to his bluntness. His hard eyes turn to me, his face expressionless. “Sorry…” I mumble, calming it down to a smile, “You’re just…really right.”

  “None of that matters now,” he responds. “All that matters is that you get him back.”

  “Bobby, this book…” Sam says from the other side of the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He walks over to Sam, who is hunched over a very large book, and sits on the corner of the crowded desk. “Key of Solomon? It’s the real deal, alright.”

  “Woah, wait,” I say, taken aback, walking closer to them. “You know the book deals with magical operations and spells, right? So, like, you're essentially using magic…”

  “And?” he grumbles.

  “And…does anyone see the hypocrisy there?” I ask, looking between the three. If there was one thing I learned about hunters, it is that they’ll use things related to or originating in magic, or even just magic itself, but will be the first to target a witch. Doesn’t make much sense.

  It’s quiet for one, two…three beats as if the thought had somehow never occurred to them. “She’s got a point,” Dean speaks up, breaking the silence.

  “So then these, uh, protective circles. ‘They really work?” Sam asks.

  “Hell, yeah. You get a demon in–they’re trapped. Powerless. It’s like a Satanic roach motel,” Bobby answers, earning a chuckle from Sam.

  “Man knows his stuff,” Dean says proudly, coming over to us.

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else, too. This is some serious crap you boys stepped in,” he warns.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Sam asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  “Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, I hear of twenty-seven so far. ‘You get what I’m saying? More and more demons are walking among us—a lot more.”

  A chill runs down my spine, the atmosphere seeming to change with the warning, and something else. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I turn to look at the window behind me. 

  “Do you know why?” Sam asks, his face grimmer than before.

  “No, but I know it’s something big. The storm’s coming, and you boys, your Daddy—you are smack in the middle of it.”

  Suddenly, the dog outside starts barking, the sound powerful and jolting. “Rumsfeld,” Bobby grumbles, walking over to the window. The barking turns into whining. He mumbles something to himself as he looks out the window. My eyes go to the front door. “Something’s wrong,” he announces. 

  “She’s here,” I breathe.

  The door bursts open. Meg saunters in, an unamused expression on her face. “No more crap, okay?”

  Dean lunges at her, unscrewed flask in his hand. But Meg hits him, sending him into a stack of books. “I want the Colt,” she demands, “The real Colt. Right now.”

  “Sorry,” I say, moving directly into her line of sight as Sam stands in front of Bobby. “I can’t give you the Colt, but I can give you a round two.” I take a few steps back, and she follows. “And I’ll play fair this time.”

  A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Where is it?” 

  “We don’t have it on us. We buried it,” Sam answers. 

  “Didn’t I say ‘no more crap’? I swear–after everything I heard about you Winchesters, I got to tell you, I’m a little underwhelmed,” she says, taking a step forward for each one I take back. “First, Johnny tries to pawn off a fake gun, and then he leaves the real gun with you three chuckleheads. Lackluster, men. I mean, did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

  “Actually, we were counting on it,” Dean answers, looming behind her. She turns to look at him, and he meets her eyes before looking up at the ceiling, where a large protective circle has been made. “Gotcha.”

********

  She’s tied to a chair in the middle of the floor, right at the center of the circle above. Her wrists are tied to the arms, and her ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. “You know, if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask,” she muses with a teasing smile.

  “You’re kind of freaky,” I remark, staring at her from the outskirts of the circle.

  “You’re one to talk,” she retorts quickly. “Gettin’ inside people's heads– making them do whatever you want.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t make you do anything, I just showed you something,” I correct, taking a step closer to her. “How was that, by the way?” 

  It’s cruel, and I know it is with a sick twisting in my gut. But the words are already said, and there’s no taking them back. I didn’t think before speaking. I rarely do.

  Her smile widens like a cat's, and her eyes drag up and down me. “I like you,” she says.

  “That’s a shame because I’m not too fond of you,” I quip, stepping out of the circle. That was probably more talking to her than I should’ve done.

  Bobby steps back into the room, carrying a large container of salt. “I salted the doors and windows. If there are any demons out there–they ain’t getting in.” And with that confirmation, Dean stands up, his unbuttoned blue shirt rolled up to his elbows.

 He circles her like a predator circles its prey before stopping in front of her. “Where’s our father, Meg?” he asks, his voice eerily calm.

  “You didn’t ask very nice,” she purrs.

  “Where’s our father, bitch?”

  “Jeez. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t,” she teases. Everything a joke to her.

  He lunges at her, hands on the arms of the chair to steady her. “You think this is a fucking game?” he yells, and I think it’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him. “Where is he?! What did you do to him?”

  “He died screaming. I killed him myself,” she answers, smiling.

  He stands straight, something akin to hatred washes over his face, and then a loud smack echoes in the room, her face forced to the side from the sheer force of his hand, his hand lingering in the air. I step closer against the wall, arms crossing against my stomach.

  “That’s kind of a turn-on—you hitting a girl,” she muses as if it didn’t hurt, and maybe it didn’t when she is what she is. 

  “You’re no girl,” he corrects. 

  Then, Bobby stands, moving into the next room ever with a nod of his head, beckoning us away from what is being done. “Dean,” he calls, making sure he follows too.

  “You okay?” Sam asks his brother.

  “She’s lying. He’s not dead,” he answers, expertly avoiding the question. He’s still calm about it, but you can hear the fuming just below it.

  “Dean, you got to be careful with her. Don’t hurt her,” Bobby warns.

  “Why?”

  “Because she really is a girl, that’s why,” he explains.

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asks.

  “She’s possessed. That’s a human possessed by a demon,” he answers. “Can’t you tell?”

  “Are you trying to tell me there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there?” Dean asks. Bobby just nods as if the words are too much to handle.

  “Fuck,” I curse at the same time Dean declares that it’s good news.

  “No,” I say, something burning behind my eyes, “It’s not. She fell from that building, and it should’ve killed her, but it didn’t, and if we–” 

  “She’ll die,” Sam finishes for me.

  I nod. It’s my fault. God, it’s all my fault. I’m the reason she fell, and the reason an innocent girl will die. She’s going to die. The blood has been on my hands since that night the shadows came, and I can’t wash it off.

  “Come on, get your book,” Dean tells me, his mind made up despite it all.

  “Dean, no, that’s a death sentence,” I argue, my hands beginning to shake. She’ll be dying by my hands a second time.

  “She’s an innocent girl,” Bobby adds.

  “And we’re gonna put her out of her misery,” Dean declares.

  “I don’t think you—”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I understand just fine,” he cuts me off, his words sharp and harsh, his accent coming through a little heavier. It's a different side of him, one I haven’t seen before. As I look at him, I know I should be wary of this side of him, an almost barbaric side that’s willing to do anything. Maybe I should be scared of him, yet I can’t be. “You can heal her, can't you?” he adds.

   I can’t. I can’t fix things. I try to, and it just doesn’t work; I’m just not good enough. I am not good at fixing things. I could not fix and heal Dean when he was sick and dying, nor could I do anything when those kids were sick and dying—I may as well be powerless. I’m far better at ruining things than I am fixing them, and I wish it weren’t that way, and I try to do good, I try not to ruin things, but they break beneath my hands anyway, and I don’t know how to stop it, I just—

  “Can’t you?” he repeats himself, a little harsher this time.

  I shake my head, but I say, “I…I guess so.”

  “Get your book,” he says again.

  It appears in my hands in less than a second, and I follow him into the room, the pages flipping by themselves to the right one.

  “Are you gonna read me a story?” she teases.

  “Something like that,” Dean answers. “Hit it.”

  “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino…,” I start, the Latin rolling smoothly off my tongue— my second language.

  “An exorcism? Are you serious?” she questions Dean.

  “Oh, we’re going for it, baby— head spinning, projectile vomiting, the whole nine yards,” he answers, referencing The Exorcism even at a time like this. 

  “...tribuite virtutem deo,” I continue, speaking power into God. She flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. Dean looks at me, and I stop. This was torturing her into a confession before ripping her away.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” she spits, her eyes locked on me. Then, her gaze turns to Dean, “I’m gonna rip the bones from your body.”

  “No, you’re gonna burn in hell,” he corrects. “Unless you tell us where our Dad is.”

  But Meg just smiles at him, no amount of pain seemingly enough to pull the truth from her lips. “Well, at least you’ll get a nice tan,” he says, knowing it is not yet enough. He looks at me then, green eyes boring into me.

  I know my role. I know my fate: the blood I am born to bear. I look down at my spellbook, which is just a little too foreign in my hands. I read, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” she shakes violently, “omnis satanica potestas, omnis incuriso infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, onmis congregatio et secta diabolica....”

  The chair rattles beneath her lashing movements, and finally, she gasps in pain. I stop.

  “He begged for his life with tears in his eyes. He begged to see his sons one last time. That’s when I slit his throat.”

  “Ergo…” I continue. Therefore.

  Dean leans down to her, hands bracing either side of the chair's arms. “For your sake, I hope you’re lying,” he says. “‘Cause if it’s true, I swear to God, I will march into hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you evil sons of bitches, so help me God!”

  “Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae.” A breeze blows through the room, shifting the curtains and loose papers. “Hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei. Contremisce et effuge. Invocato a nobis sancto et terribile nomine. Quem inferi tremunt…”

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “Where is he?” Dean tries again.

  “You just won’t take ‘dead’ for an answer, will you?” she answers through gritted teeth.

  “Where is he?!” he yells.

  “Dead!”

  “No, he’s not! He’s not dead! He can’t be!”

  “Ab insidis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias, libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” The chair slides around the circle. “Ut inimicos sanctae ecclesiae humiliare digneris, to rogamus audi....”

  “He will be!” she yells. I stopped again.

  “Wait! What?!”

  “He’s not dead. But he will be after what we do to him,” she elaborates. 

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean asks.

  “You don’t,” she smiles.

  “Y/N!”

  But before I can read the words spew from her. “A building! Okay? A building in Jefferson City,” she answers.

  “Missouri? Where, where? An address!” he demands, circling her.

  “I don’t know,” she says firmly.

  “And the demon, the one we’re looking for…where is it?” Sam asks.

  “I don’t know! I swear! That’s everything. That’s all I know,” she pleads.

  “Finish it,” Dean demands.

  “What? I told you the truth!”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You son of a bitch, you promised,” she spits.

  “I lied!” he yells, turning towards her.

  I suck in a deep breath, looking at the next verse.

  “Wait!” Sam says, pulling Dean towards me, creating a mini huddle. “Maybe we can still use her. Find out where the demon is,” he suggests quietly. 

  “She doesn’t know,” Dean answers.

  “She lied,” he points out.

  “Sam, there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there. We’ve got to help her,” he reasons.

  “To what degree is this really helping?” I point out. “She’ll die. This whole thing was stupid. I can just use a scrying spell.”

  “We can’t leave her like this,” Dean says. I look at Meg then, weak and tied to the chair. If the demon is gone, then she’ll be free. Her life was ripped away from her with this possession, and it could be given back; she’d have freedom…But free at what cost? I do not know. Morality is a very fine line; I should know, I walk it each day with my very existence, and I fear what may happen if I toe too far out of line. 

  I wet my lips and glance down at my book, the decision is already made. “Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae, terogamus audi nos, terribilis deus do sanctuario suo deus israhel. Ipse tribuite virtutem et fortitudinem plebi suae, benedictus deus, gloria patri....”

  She throws her head back, mouth opening in a blood-curdling scream. A black cloud shoots from her mouth as if being pulled from her stomach; it spreads out in the constraints of the circle before vanishing as if it never existed. Her body slumped forward, blood dripping from her mouth. I step forward before I can think about it. I drop to my knees beside her, my spell book slipping out of my hand to be discarded to the side. I reach my hand up carefully, as if dealing with a wounded animal. My fingers brush her jaw and cheek, carefully lifting her heavy head an inch or two. I duck my head a little to try and better examine her face. I can feel their eyes on me and, most importantly, hers. 

  Blood is dribbling down her chin, but she’s still breathing. It’s ragged and uneven, but it’s there. She’s practically a miracle that I cannot begin to fathom. I don’t waste another second because seconds could be all she has. Soft purple light emits from my palms, seeping into her pale skin. “Please don’t just stand there,” I say, not looking back or breaking focus from her. My plea seemed to snap them out of whatever trance they were in. “Call 911. Get some water and blankets,” Dean orders one of them.

 I can feel how overwhelmed her body is, working overtime as it struggles to keep her alive. So much is hurt in her body that it feels like drowning. She sucks in a sharp yet weak breath, her shoulders shuttering. I move my power forward, trying to focus solely on her. She trembles beneath my touch. I bring the jagged edges of bones together, guiding the power to connect them like puzzle pieces, filling the gaps and breaks with pure energy until the zigzagging breaks themselves disappear as if they were never there in the first place. Sam and Dean surround us, working around me to untie her. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

  “Shh, shh,” Sam hushes. “Just take it easy, alright?”

  “Come on. Let’s get her down,” Dean directs. I slip my hand down to hers, shuffling around to give them room while actively healing her. They lift her easily from the chair, a crunching noise filling the air. I feel the breaks, the further ruining of her body like it’s an echo of my own, her blood-curdling scream pressing itself into the grooves of my brain. 

  I kneel beside her the second she’s lowered to the floor. The energy spread throughout her body, separate tendrils moving through shattered ribs and torn muscle like fingers brushing over the cracks of the pavement. It finds the breaks and tries to mend them, trying to spread out as much as it can to mend as much as possible at once. I urge myself to hurry, to heal more, but there's so much. It’s not just one broken bone or one issue; it's the entirety of her. It's more bones than I can count or heal quickly enough when her entire body is under duress—

  “It’s been a year,” she croaks, her voice strained.

  “What?” Sam asks the very same question going on in my very busy mind. 

  “It’s been a year,” she elaborates.

  I can feel the labour she’s putting on her lungs and her heart with the simple action of speaking. I follow the shot of pain, chasing after it and wrapping myself around it, mellowing out the festering beast as if I were petting an agitated dog. I soothe it back, pulling the wave back from the shoreline until the waves calm down enough. 

  “Shh, just take it easy,” Sam directs, holding her other hand.

  “I’ve been awake for some of it. I couldn’t move my own body,” she explains. “The things I did– it’s a nightmare.” 

  “Was it telling us the truth about our Dad?” Dean asks.

  “Dean,” Sam warns firmly, and I’m glad he did. 

  The air feels instantly thicker, like a blanket trying to snuff out a fire. It’s almost suffocating but not as much as it is to feel sharp tangs prick at my palms and run down my spine, a sharpness I know is from her. 

  “We need to know,” Dean responds. 

   “Yes. But it wants…” She says. I can feel her weaken, like everything suddenly felt miles away. “…you to know…that…”

  “Shh, it’s okay, don’t,” I cut her off, losing focus for a second. “Don’t talk, you’re hurting yourself.”

  But she shakes her head I feel this pull from her like she’s getting further away. 

  “They want you to come for him,” she finishes, her face paler and the bags beneath her eyes darker. I’m losing her. She’s fading, and I can feel it. I send some power forward, chasing after this disappearing force that’s nothing more than a feeling. 

  “If Dad’s still alive, none of that matters,” Dean answers. 

  I can’t grasp her. I can’t hold on, it’s more than just the shaking of my hands or the ache in my head—I just can’t hold her. It’s like her body has long made this decision, and I can’t get it to change its mind. I knew this would happen, that I’m not good enough at this to keep her here. She’s dying, and I can’t change that. Yet, I can’t give up. It’s hopeless, yet I can’t bring myself to tear my hands away because what if something changes? What if I’m capable of more? So, I push more energy forward, ignoring the sharp pain that throbs in my head. 

  Footsteps come forth, and a navy blanket is laid upon the girl by aged hands. A water cup is put into Dean's hands, the droplets of condensation running down the sides. He holds her head up gently, her neck extending to gulp down the water like it’s the paradise she’s been searching for. 

  “Where is the demon we’re looking for?” Sam asked, tucking the blanket more tightly around her. 

  “Not there. Other ones. Awful ones,” she answers, her voice quieter. She’s getting further away. I try to put more energy forth, my hands shaking more, my head aching, a knot forming in my stomach, and warmth trickling down my nose. I’m doing all I know to keep her on this plane. 

  “Where are they keeping our Dad?” Dean pushes.

  They don’t seem to understand this delicate process, this moving away that she’s doing. They don’t understand how they aren’t helping, and I cannot break focus to tell them to stop. I can’t waste these precious moments, but God, I wish they’d just stop. 

  “By the river. Sunrise,” she says faintly. Her heart is beating too slowly, her lungs failing to keep up. 

  “Sunrise,” Dean echoes. “What does that mean?”

  She slips further like the tide going out.

  “What does that mean?” he repeats. 

  Her eyes close, her heart thumping one last beat before it stops. I feel her body shut down, like lights going out. Pure energy searching in a void. “She’s gone,” I whisper, my hands falling from her and into my lap as I stare at her lifeless body. 

  A numbing static fills my ears. The ache in my head, the shaking of my hands, and the blood dripping down my lip are the only proof that I had tried and failed. 

  It’s funny. I can destroy without thinking, without even breaking a sweat. But the moment I try to heal, to reverse my own doing, I can’t. 

  The room is silent. What more could be said? What more could be done? She’s dead, and the eyes that watch her corpse are the very same ones to blame. How are you supposed to move on from that?

  I stare at my hands resting on my lap, searching for an answer that has to be written in the lines on my palms, some sort of explanation as to what went wrong. How could I always be bad when all I try to be is good? It doesn’t make sense. There has to be some sort of explanation in my DNA, something tangible, so that I could know how to fix it. 

  “You better hurry up and beat it before the paramedics get here,” Bobby says. I don’t understand how they move on, how the guilt doesn’t try to eat them whole the second it takes its place. 

  “Come on,” Dean says softly, a gentle hand brushing my shoulder. When had he moved over here?

  I look up, my head inclined far back to make up for the distance of my kneeling and slumped position. “What?” I ask as if I can’t quite hear him. I can hear how weak my voice sounds, like a breath of a whisper rather than a conviction. His eyes soften, and it’s such a drastic change from his previous stern and demanding appearance. He crouches down, coming to my level, his eyes tracing me. His hands find my face, cradling my cheeks, his fingers slipping into my hair.

  I feel sick, my heart feels like a void, and I don’t think it’s from using my powers. I don’t deserve this softness, this kindness, especially when her corpse is just a couple of inches in front of me. But that doesn't stop him. He pulls one hand away, tugging down the blue sleeve of his button-down. He runs his covered hand beneath my nose and carefully over my lips like he didn’t care that my blood would stain the cuff of his sleeve. “We gotta go, sweetheart,” he repeats.

  I feel myself tremble in his hold, beneath his gaze. I wish I could collapse into him.

  I feel like a kicked puppy looking up at him with misty eyes. I feel pathetic because I keep failing those around me. I wish it were different, I wish I were different. But maybe I am just a kicked puppy looking for someone to take away these feelings.

 His hands slip from my face, dragging down my neck and over my shoulders. He squeezes lightly, encouraging me to stand with him, and I do. I stand even though I feel like I’m in some sick trance, like the world is shifting on its axis, and I can’t see straight. He picks up my spell book, pressing it into my hands. I clutch it to my chest, holding onto it like it’s a lifeline because I cannot hold onto him even though it feels like I must. 

  I’m aware of the eyes watching what should feel like a private moment. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable in front of others, but Dean is. Yet here he is— soft with me in front of the very people he feels he has to be strong for— and it only makes me love him more.

  “Here, take this,” Bobby says, ripping me from this moment in the same way his eyes move from us. He hands the Key of Solomon to Sam without a second thought. “You might need it,” he adds.

  “Thanks…for everything,” Dean says, his softness just barely remaining. “Be careful, alright?” 

  His hand finds my shoulder, guiding me to the front door as if he knew I wouldn’t be able to do it myself—he’s right. 

  “You just go find your Dad,” Bobby replies, brushing off the thanks. “And when you do, you bring him around, would you? I won’t even try to shoot him this time.”

  We walk out the door, out of that wooden home and away from a person we could not save, all in hopes of saving another. 

  I’m scared. The fight we’re walking into is more like a war; it’s bound to have casualties. I’m worried I’ll be as powerless as I feel now. I won’t be able to help, and I’ll lose the two boys I care for most.

  The ride to Missouri was long, but what else is new? Most of our rides were long, they were bound to be when we travel all around America. But they don’t always feel long; you’re with friends, there’s music playing, and you get to see the treeline blur into vast fields—essentially, you know you’re moving. It’s a road trip that I know is a little messed up, yet I can’t help but enjoy it just a little because I’m with people I can’t not see being in my life.

  I can’t say the same for this trip.

  South Dakota to Missouri. 

  I can’t get her corpse out of my head.

  I can hear the crunch of bones in the crunching of leaves rolled under the wheels of the car. Or, when I closed my eyes to nap (which Dean insisted I do), I could feel the way her soul slipped through my fingers, the loss like trying to grasp onto a stream of water as if it were rope. 

  Luckily, we've arrived in Missouri. It doesn’t make me feel better. I’m leaning against the Impala, watching a train move by in a mass of red color; we’re parked by some train track for a reason that I didn’t pay attention to. I can feel the breeze the passing train creates, tickling my skin. I know I’m alive and she isn’t. 

  I can feel Dean's eyes on me, long glimpses stolen between loading guns from the trunk into a duffle bag. He’s been checking up on me often since we left Bobby. He’s trying to help. He did succeed in getting me to drink copious amounts of water, but water couldn’t wash away the guilt carved into my bones.

  I have so much guilt that I don’t know what to do with it. Hunting comes with losses, I know that. We lose people by figuring it out too slowly, or messing up in one way or another; we deal with that guilt because we have to. You learn to move on. I’ve never been very good at moving on. And with her, there’s no one to blame here. I solely caused this. 

  It’s like suddenly everyone who accused me of doing bad things just because I was a witch or believed I was bound to do something wicked, was right. I killed her. Death is normal, yes, it’s a natural part of life, but what is unnatural is the taking of another’s life—the exact thing I did. I’m bound to hurt the people around me because I cannot control myself. 

  I run my hands over my face, trying to clear my mind and fix myself. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can do. I wish I could fix this part of me, I wish I knew how. I want to crumble to the floor and lash out like a child, but I can’t. I have to control my emotions, especially now when I’ve already messed up badly. If I lose control of my emotions, then I’ll just hurt more things. But it feels impossible to ease myself when it feels like a little monster is in my gut, eating me from the inside out. 

  I’ve already tried a couple of things. I went for a short walk, and I changed my shirt into something lighter, thinking that it would, in turn, make me feel lighter. It didn’t really work. Once more, I don’t know how the boys do it; how they are able to compartmentalize these feelings. I guess they have their own little things they do. Sam is reading the book Bobby gave him, resting it against the hood of the car, and Dean’s loading up weapons.

  I wonder if it’s eating at them too, if they too have little monsters in their guts. 

  “You’ve been quiet,” Sam comments, his voice directed away from me, towards his brother.

  “Just getting ready,” Dean shrugs it off. 

  “He’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Sam answers, figuring him out.

  Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t respond. I should’ve picked up on his quietness, I’m usually good at reading him, but I guess this time I was stupidly caught up in myself to realize his own feelings. 

  The car shifts a little, easing as the weight of a man and his very large book is removed. Sam moves to the trunk. Intrigued, I follow his movements, watching as he uncaps a thick white marker and begins to write something. 

  “Dude, what are you drawing on my car?” Dean exclaims, watching in horror as his brother graffiti’s his Baby. I move towards them, peeking from the side to see Sam drawing a circle with a star inside of it on the inside of the trunk lid. “That’s a Devil’s Trap,” I identify.

  “Demons can’t get through it or inside it,” Sam adds. 

  “So?” Dean spits, baffled. I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t tackled Sam. 

  Sam shifts to the corner of the trunk, drawing another little symbol there. “It basically turns the trunk into a lockbox,” he explains. 

  “So?” Dean repeats. 

  “So, we have a place to hide the Colt while we go get Dad,” Sam answers. 

 “What are you talking about? We’re bringing the Colt with us,” Dean counters. 

  “We can’t, Dean. We’ve only got three bullets left. We can’t just use them on any demon, we’ve got to use them on the demon,” Sam reasons.

  “When did you suddenly change your mind?” I comment. “‘Just a couple hours ago, you were willing to face an army with guns ablazing.”

  He gives me a look like he knows I’m right and yet wishes that I hadn’t remembered that detail. “It’s different now,” he says, and I decide not to push him on his stubborn response. 

 “Well, we have to save Dad, Sam, okay? We’re taking the Colt. We’re gonna need all the help we can get,” Dean argues. 

  “Dean, you know how pissed Dad would be if we used all the bullets? Dean, he wouldn’t want us to bring the gun,” he points out. 

“I don’t care, Sam. I don’t care what Dad wants, okay? And since when do you care what Dad wants?”

“We want to kill this demon. You used to want that, too. Hell, I mean you’re the one who came and got me at school!” Sam yells. Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who dragged me back into this, Dean. I’m just trying to finish it!”

  “Well, you and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that? You both can’t wait to sacrifice yourself for this thing,” Dean accuses, his words as sharp as a knife as it glides through the air. “But you know what? I’m gonna be the one to bury you. You’re selfish, you know that? You don’t care about anything but revenge.”

  “That’s not true, Dean. I want Dad back,” Sam responds, earning another scoff. 

  “Alright, come on guys, arguing isn’t going to help anyone here, let alone your Dad,” I try to mediate even though I know it’s futile, they’ll keep going back and forth. I should take my own advice. I need to put aside my guilt and fear because it won’t help anyone.

  “They are expecting us to bring this gun,” Sam continues, completely ignoring me. “They get the gun, they kill us all. That Colt is our only leverage, and you know it, Dean. We can not bring that gun. We can’t.”

  “Fine,” Dean answers firmly, giving in rather easily. 

  “I’m serious, Dean,” Sam says.

  “I said fine, Sam,” he repeats. He makes a show out of taking the Colt out from his jacket's inner pocket, holding it up before putting it in the trunk. 

********

  A metal fence separates the sidewalk from a park with a river flowing through it, the wind coming off the small stream adding the slightest chill to the hot day. A bird chirps loudly from a hanging branch, stealing my attention away from looking for what Meg could have meant for us to find in Jefferson City. Regardless of our search, my eyes stay on it for as long as I can as we pass by it. 

  “Hey, hey,” Dean says abruptly, moving my attention away from the chunky bird and onto him. He stops beneath the very branch the bird sits on, and as if the bird is pleased with that fact, it makes a little jump. “Think I know what Meg meant by Sunrise,” he reveals. I follow his eyesight to an apartment building, a sign perched outside of it reading “Sunrise Apartments.”

  “Very on the nose,” I remark, mostly to myself. 

  “Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “That’s pretty smart. I mean, if these demons can possess people, they can possess almost anybody inside.”

  “So we won’t know who it is,” I add. There are certainly way over 50 apartments in the building, each one containing any number of people. 

  “Yeah, and anybody could attack us,” Sam adds.

  “And so we can’t kill them— a building full of human shields,” Dean builds onto the seemingly never-ending predicament. “This fucking sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam mumbles. “Alright, so, how the hell are we going to get in?”

  “Make an anonymous call with a descriptive enough threat to make them leave?” I suggest, shrugging.

  “Or.. we could just pull the fire alarm…” Dean offers, giving me a strange look for my suggestion. “Get out all the civilians.” 

  “Okay, but the city responds in, what, seven minutes?” Sam points out, trying to figure out how big our window would be.

  “Seven minutes exactly,” Dean confirms.

  “Isn’t that, like, a crime?” I ask, though I’m not sure if pulling a fire alarm under false pretenses is a crime.

  “When has committing a crime ever been an issue for us?” Dean points out.

  “Touché,” I respond.

  “Did you think what you suggested wasn’t a crime?” Sam adds.

  I look at him with pursed lips, answering, “Double Touché.”

**************

  The plan had worked perfectly: Sam pulled the fire alarm, the firefighters showed up almost exactly seven minutes later, and Dean distracted a fireman with a ridiculous story while I used a tap of my finger, with some magic, to unlock a compartment on the firetruck.

  Now we walk down one of the halls in full fireman gear. We wear large helmets that cover our entire face, a breathing apparatus strapped to our backs as well as a small water tank and hose, and, of course, the classic jumpsuit. In truth, the uniform was far bigger and a lot heavier than I thought. There weren’t a whole lot of size options in that compartment, considering they were supposed to be used as a “just in case” for the firemen. The jumpsuit I got stuck with was intended for someone two times my height and weight, but considering all that’s at stake, it doesn't matter. 

  Dean is using his EMF reader to check the doors we pass, looking for any sign of the Demons.

  “I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up,” he remarks. 

  I remember that. I remember him admitting it when he was just a little too drunk that time we celebrated his 21st birthday a little late. It was one of the few times I felt comfortable drinking, despite it being technically illegal for me to do so at 19. But it was with him so I felt safe—almost invincible even.

  He drove to my college, we spent the day together eating greasy food and watching a western film he liked. Then at night, he drove us to this clearing where you could see the stars perfectly. We laid down a blanket in the grass and shared a case of beer (he definitely had more than I did, though). It tasted disgusting, but he had this easy, almost sloppy, smile on his lips, and he looked so lovely and himself that it was more than worth it—he’s always been worth it.   

  When the drinks wore down, and everything was all mellow and slow-like, he admitted this little fact, his words not slurred but bitter. I don’t hear the same bitterness now, as if he had accepted his fate or had long given up on this dream. I hope he hasn’t. He’d make a good firefighter, he’s good at saving people, and he’s certainly fit enough, skilled enough, and hot enough—you know, the whole stereotype that firefighters are hot. 

  “You never told me that,” Sam reveals.

  Unfortunately, I’m not surprised that he hasn't told his brother. I’m not sure if he would’ve told me if it hadn’t been for a drunken conversation. I’m not sure if he remembers telling me. 

  I hope he gets his dream or something similar to it. I really want him to get out of the hunting life at some point, even though it’s probably unfathomable to him. But I want him to understand that his life is more than this, I want him to be happy, I want him to live for himself rather than following the wants or orders of—

  The EMF beeps loudly, the noise pinging against the walls. A look is shared, and just to double check he leans it closer to the door, the beeping becoming frantic. He shuts it off quickly. He knocks at the door, loudly stating, “This is the fire department. We need you to evacuate.” He holds up a hand, directing us to be quiet as well as ready. 

  I hold my breath, listening closely for movement and the sound of a door unlocking. The door knob turns and the boys barrel through first, a woman stumbles back from the force of the door her eyes pitch black. Quickly, I grab the hose attached to the water canister on my back, spraying the man with holy water. Sam joins me in spraying; smoke, and the sound of sizzling fills the air, burning the couple. Dean lunges forward, punching the man square in the face and shoving him back into an open closet filled with coats. He slams the door shut before looking back at us and yelling, “Come on!”

  We are out of water, and on order, we stop spraying the water. The Demon lady is cowering in pain. Sam grabs the woman’s wrist, timing it with his brother to shove her in the closet too. Dean leans against the closet door, holding it closed.

  “Told you it would work!” I say, referring to the holy water tanks. “We should get Super Soakers next.”

  The door thumps behind him, nearly throwing him forward as the door lurches. “Hurry up,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to prevent them from escaping. 

  “Oh, right,” I mumble, creating a salt canister in my hand, light purple energy sparking around it as it forms. Quickly, I move towards him, pouring a line of salt around the door, making sure there are no gaps in the white lines. The pounding suddenly stops, and the Demons go dormant inside. 

  Moving in near synchronization, we take off the firemen's gear, the heavy equipment, and the yellow jumpsuits. I hop out of the mess of clothes, nearly tripping on the helmet as I bound towards the closed door on the far wall. I put my hand on the doorknob, taking a quick look over my shoulder to make sure the boys were close behind and ready for whatever lurked behind the door. 

  But before I can turn the doorknob, firm hands grab hold of my waist, moving me to the side. The cold metal of his ring brushes against a sliver of skin exposed between my shirt and my pants as his hand drags off of me. My breath hitches, unable to stop myself when I am taken by surprise. It goes unnoticed as he slowly opens the door. 

 John is lying, unconscious, wrists tied to the metal frame of a bed in the center of the room. His face is bruised, a nasty yellowish-green blob splayed beneath his left eye.

  “Dad?” Dean exhales, rushing over to the bed. He leans down, his ear hovering over his father's face. “He’s still breathing,” he reveals. Sam exhales beside me as if he were holding his breath while awaiting the news. He steps further into the room, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

  Dean shakes his father, “Dad, wake up. Dad!” He shouts, fear laced deep in his voice. Yet, there’s no response from the unconscious man. He pulls out a knife from his waistband, the blade inches from the rope. 

  “Wait. Wait,” Sam cuts in. 

  “What?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

  “He could be possessed for all we know,” Sam points out.

  “What, are you nuts?” Dean exclaims.

  “No, that’s a good idea,” I nod. “Especially because they still want the Colt.”

  Sam takes a flask out of his pocket, twists the little cap, and sprinkles it on John. But, there’s no effect.

  “At least we checked,” I comment, shrugging. Better safe than sorry.

  Suddenly, John groans, his head turning back and forth, straining to each side. “Sam? Why are you splashing water on me?” He grumbles, his eyes peeking open.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Dean rushes out.

  “They’ve been drugging me,” he reveals, his voice strained. That’s…weird? Why would they drug him? I would think they’d be powerful enough to have other means to keep him from escaping. But, I guess, why wouldn’t they drug him? 

  “Where’s the Colt?” He asks, his priorities skewed. 

  “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s safe,’’ Sam replies.

  Dean lifts his knife again, cutting the ropes with one great slice.

  “Good boys. Good boys,” John mumbles. 

  They carefully help him to his feet, an arm around either boy's shoulder. I lead the way out of the bedroom, making sure there’s a clear path for them. Then the front door suddenly bursts open, and a man with short hair and a fireman with an axe move forward, both with black eyes. I turn around swiftly, “Go back. Go back,” I urge, a certain nervousness rising in my heart. I spin back toward the demons, throw my hands up, and send a surge of energy forward. They soar backward, crashing into the hallway wall. I look over my shoulder at the boys on the bedroom threshold.

  The two demons rise again and charge forward. I move into the bedroom the second the Winchesters are in, quickly closing and locking the door behind me. Suddenly, an axe barrels through the door, fragments of wood exploding outwards as a strike is made at the door.

  “Calm yourself, Johnny,” I remark, running my hands down the air to create a forcefield directly in front of the door. 

  “Sweetheart, let’s go!” Dean calls. I turn around swiftly. He’s on the fire escape, Sam and John nowhere in sight, though I figure they’re further down, the white curtain blowing from the open window. I nod, moving to him. 

  We move down the fire escape, one quick step after the other. On the safety of the sidewalk, Sam leads the way while Dean lugs John forward. Suddenly, Sam is tackled to the ground, a man with spiky dark hair on top of him. He lands punch after punch, fists soaring down with a fierceness that could only come from a madman or, in this case, a demon.

  I run over before any more damage can be done. I grab onto his forearm before he can land another punch. I push energy forward, sending a blast that sends him flying into a parked mail truck, the windshield spider-webbing. He slides off the car like nothing happened, his head tilting a quarter inch, his eyes as dark as night. It becomes a staring match or a standoff. I, nervously, look over to the side where Dean is leaning his father against the wall. I look back at the demon, and with a mere blink, I soar backwards, crashing into the door of a parked car. Pain erupts up and down my spine, my mouth left agape with the pain. 

  He saunters back over to Sam, straddling him as he lands mindless punch after punch, something crunching. I drag myself up off the ground, the pain vanishing with ease. The demon lifts his fist for another strike, but before it can land, I throw out my hand, shooting him off Sam with an invisible force. He flies backward, crashing into a lamp post, the glass above shatters, and the metal bends backward as if it were a glowstick. 

  He rolls onto his feet, head tilted down and upper lip lifted in a snarl as if he were going to charge forward. I yank him into the air with a flick of my wrist, then hurl him down onto the street, the asphalt caves beneath him–a shallow circle around him. I keep him pinned down with tendrils of energy, pressing him hard into the earth as if it is holding him itself. I saunter over, eyes on him as I speak, “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino. Tribuite virtutem deo.”

  He thrashes, teeth bared like a mad dog.   

  “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” I continue.

  Suddenly he launches forward, somehow escaping the binds of energy, he tackles me. He lands a swift punch that makes my head turn and my eyes water as a tingly sensation ignites on my skin. I shove him off, using enough force to send him a couple feet away. I roll onto my stomach, lifting myself to my hands and knees. This is just getting annoying now. 

  But, he doesn’t go after me again. He doesn’t face me, he doesn’t lunge, he doesn’t raise his hands to fight or throw something, instead he rushes towards Sam who is leaning against the brick wall with John and Dean. His back is to us, unsuspecting of the danger that lurks behind him. I launch to my feet, my hand outstretched to whip energy forward that could pull the demon back but his hands are already on Sam, one on his shoulder and the other on his chin ready to snap his neck.

  I stop the line of energy before it can touch him, worried that the pull back would cause the damage. The demon takes steps back, dragging Sam with him, away from Dean and John. He whips around to face me, to show me that I couldn’t do anything here without potentially hurting Sam. He’s smiling wickedly, eyes dark enough to see one’s own reflection in them. 

  His hand tightens on Sam’s chin, fingers pressing into his skin. Then, a single shot pierces the air, a hole cut right through the center of his forehead. Its hold goes slack, its body seizing as great strikes of electricity seem to go through it—lighting it up. It slumps to the floor, revealing Dean standing some distance behind with the Colt in his outstretched hand.

  An abandoned cabin located deep in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a vast amount of trees sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, which wouldn’t be that far off from the current reality. Each entrance to the house, both windows and the front door, are lined with salt and various sigils meant to keep spirits and demons out.  

  Chalk dust sticks to my hands as I draw another protection sigil on the wooden wall, Sam pouring the final salt line on the nearby windowsill. His face is a mess of bruises; his eye swollen, a cut on his lip and cheek, he wouldn’t let me heal him. He said it was the least of our worries and he was probably right about that too. We’re essentially protecting ourselves from impending doom, from ravenous beasts with one track minds. Does that make them easier or harder to beat? I don’t know. 

  The wooden floorboards creak beneath the weight of familiar footsteps. “How is he?” Sam asks without needing to see who it is. 

  “He just needed a little rest, that’s all,” Dean answers. “How are you?”

  “I’ll survive,” Sam replies easily, turning to his brother. “Hey, you don’t think we were followed here, do you?” 

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, we couldn’t have found a more out-of-the-way place to hole up,” Dean responds. 

  “Even if they did follow us, they won’t be able to get through this,” I add, gesturing to the various sigils drawn on the walls. It sort of looked like a toddler got access to markers and decided to doodle on the walls. I suppose that’s not too far off for someone who’s not familiar with sigils. 

  “Yeah…” Sam answers, merely acknowledging my response rather than absorbing it as if something else is on his mind. “Hey, uh…Dean, you, um……you saved my life back there.”

  “So, I guess you’re glad I brought the gun, huh?” Dean muses.

  Sam scuffs, a smile pulling at his lips. “Man, I’m trying to thank you here.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dean says a little more seriously. 

  Sam walks across the room, and I add another mark to the wall; a ‘Y’ with a line sticking up from its middle. 

“Hey, Sam?” Dean breaks the silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that guy I shot? There was a person in there,” he states. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker with underlying guilt.  

  “You didn’t have a choice, Dean,” Sam answers firmly. 

 “Yeah, I know, that’s not what bothers me,” he responds. 

  “Then what does?” Sam asks.

  “Killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t even flinch. For you or Y/N or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill, it’s just, uh…it scares me sometimes.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. The information settled into the air and into the cracks of the cabin, holding onto truth as if to use it against him one day—at least that’s what his face reads of, like he knows how it sounds and he’s terrified to see our reaction. Maybe I’m entirely biased or blinded by love, or both, but yet again I do not fear this side of him—whatever side you want to call it. In fairness this feeling of his makes perfect sense, he was raised a soldier so now his priorities and reactions are that of a soldier. John got his wish. 

  I wish I knew what to say. I wish I knew how to ease that worry in his eyes. And the last thing I want is for him to believe that we’d ever be terrified of him, well maybe I should just speak for myself and say that I don’t think I could ever be terrified of him. He’s Dean. He’s my Dean that I’ve known almost my entire life. Terrified is the last possible thing he could make me feel. And yet I struggle to articulate this, to make the words form or flow in a way that could ease the furrow in his brow. I want to ease him in the way he eases me. How does he do it so easily?

  Does stating he doesn’t make me afraid really change anything when he’s afraid of himself? Do we say it’s normal to feel protective over the people you care about when that’s not exactly what he’s describing? What do you say? Is there anything that we can say? 

  “It shouldn’t,” John says, breaking the silence as he enters the room. “You did good.”

  “You’re not mad?” Dean asks, the raw astonishment in his voice enough to make me despise John all over again.

  “For what?” John responds.

  “Using a bullet.”

  “Mad? I’m proud of you,” John proclaims. “You know, Sam and I, we can get pretty obsessed. But you—you watch out for this family. You always have.”

  I can’t mask the shock on my face. Did my ears deceive me? Never in all my days did I ever think I’d see John actually express some sort of love of appreciation for his kids. Maybe John was turning over a new leaf—admittedly a very late leaf but a new leaf nonetheless. 

  “Thanks,” Dean exhales. 

  Then, suddenly, the lights begin to flicker as if slowly blinking. 

  “It found us. It’s here,” John announces. 

  “The demon?” Sam asks.

  “Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door,” John orders. 

  “I already did it,” he answers.

  “Well, check it, okay?” John insists. 

  “Okay,” he gives in, exiting the room.

  “Y/N, go with him,” John adds.

  “Oh, okay, sure,” I answer, leaving the piece of chalk on the floor before following out the same way Sam went. I go the opposite direction as him, swiftly checking each room to make sure each salt line is unbroken and each sigil on the wall is complete.

  Once more, nothing was going to enter this house, so In less than a minute I’m walking back to the main room catching the last bits of a conversation.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” John accuses.

  I hasten my steps, swinging around the corner as Dean responds, “I could ask you the same thing. Stay back.”

  The colt is aimed at John’s chest, a hard look in Dean's eyes. 

  “What’d he do now?” I ask, entering the room carefully. 

  “Dean? What the hell’s going on?” Sam exclaims, four feet behind me. 

  “Your brother’s lost his mind,” John answers.

  “Yeah, dude, you’re one to talk,” I remark. There’s likely only a few things that would ever get me to side with John and yet frankly I can’t name a single one.

  “He’s not Dad,” Dean reveals, the air seeming to thicken. 

  “What?” Sam asks.

  “I think he’s possessed. I think he’s been possessed since we rescued him,” he explains, his jaw wobbling a little bit. 

  Frick.

  “Don’t listen to him,” John adds quickly.

  “Uh uh,” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that, ‘take a couple steps back.” He rolls his eyes but makes a show of taking a single step back. Regardless, I'm not impressed or convinced. I move a little closer. 

  “Dean, how do you know?” Sam asks, not so readily convinced as I am. 

  Dean swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing harshly, his eyes rimmed with a sort of glossiness that comes from impending tears. “He’s…he’s different.”

  “You know, we don’t have time for this,” John bites. “Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you’ve gotta trust me.” 

  Sam looks back and forth between his father and brother. Dean glances at him, but doesn’t say anything more to convince him. 

  “Sam?” John tries.

  He looks back and forth again. He shakes his head, muttering, “No. No,” as he moves to Dean's side.

  John stares at them in silence, glares at me for half a beat and then returns back to his sons. “Fine. You’re all so sure, go ahead. Kill me,” he orders. He looks down.

  The gun is pointed at him. The trigger isn’t pulled, of course it isn’t. I figure whatever is possessing him likely knew that was to happen which puts us in a difficult situation. 

  “I thought so,” he remarks. He looks back up slowly, his irises yellow. Sam lunges forward but in a sweep of a hand the three of us are thrown against the wall, an invisible force pinning us there, the Colt tumbling to the floor. Again it feels like the weight of a house is being pressed upon my limbs. 

  John picks the Colt up. “What a pain in the ass this thing’s been,” he remarks.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? We’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Sam spits. 

  “Well, you found me,” he muses.

  I push on the invisible binds, trying to detach myself from the wall. He’s got us spread out enough so that we could all see each other and him which likely means he’s going to kill us here and make one watch as he takes out the other. 

  “But the holy water?” Sam questions.

  “You think something like that works on something like me?” He counters. 

  Suddenly, a wooden chair goes flying, crashing into him. He stumbles forward, the wood breaking against his back.

  “No, but apparently a chair does,” I laugh; turns out being pinned to a wall doesn’t mean I can’t use my powers.

  A smirk pulls on the corner of his lips. He slowly walks towards me, “The guard dog does bite,” he remarks. 

  “‘Want me to show you how hard I can bite?” I ask.

  “Gladly,” he answers, holding his arms out wide.

  I push against the hold again, my arm shaking as I manage to pull it off the wall, pushing back against the crushing weight. But, again like a rubber band my arm sticks back to the wall.

  “Oh, that’s right, you can’t,” he teases. “The most powerful Witch in history and yet you can’t do anything more than some party tricks.”

  My eyebrows furrow, I’m not the most powerful anything, let alone witch—I’m mediocre at best. He steps closer, grabbing ahold of my chin. I try to twist out of it but he holds firm. “Wasted potential,” he states, looking me in the eyes. 

  He’s probably right about that. There’s so many things I’m capable of but I’m too afraid to try. I’m afraid one wrong move or spell would sour my name more than it already is. I don’t want trouble. I’ve never wanted trouble. 

  “Evil bastard,” I spit.

  He steps away, shrugging. “Well, this is fun.” He walks over to the window beside Dean. “I could’ve killed you a hundred times today, but this…” He sighs, “This is worth the wait.”

  It’s Dean’s turn to struggle against the invisible force. John looks over at him. “Your Dad—he’s in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says “hi,” by the way. He’s gonna taste the iron in your blood.”

  “Let him go, or I swear to God—“ Dena threatens.

  “What? What are you and God gonna do?” He mocks. “You see, as far as I’m concerned, this is justice.” He goes over to Dean. “You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter.”

  “Who, Meg?” Dean asks.

  He nods. “The one in the alley? That was my boy. You understand.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean remarks.

  “What? You’re the only one that can have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?” A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Dean spits, trying to lunge at him despite the restraints. 

  “I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?” Sam asks. 

  He turns to Sam. “You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty little Jess?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns back to Dean, “You know, I never told you this, but Sam was going to ask her to marry him.” He backs up toward Sam. “Been shopping for rings and everything.” 

  Oh God. He had a whole life set up for himself, that interview he was supposed to go to, a girlfriend he planned on marrying. God. As if we needed anymore reason to want to kill this bastard. 

  He turns to Sam. “You want to know why?” he mocks. “Because they got in the way.”

  “In the way of what?” Sam pushes, jaw clenched.

  “My plans for you, Sammy. You…and all the children like you,” he reveals.

  “Listen, you mind just getting this over with, huh? Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing,” Dean cuts in, a bored ring to his voice. 

  He saunters back over to him. “Funny, but that’s all sort of your M.O., isn’t it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam – he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.” 

  The air crackles. 

  “I bet you’re real proud of your kids, too, huh?” Dean muses. “Oh wait, I forgot. I wasted ‘em.” 

  John steps back, his head down in defeat. Then he looks back up and suddenly Dean is yelling, the sound curling around me, blood soaking his shirt. 

  Something snaps in me then. I rip forward, the invisible weight nothing more than a blanket. I vanish and appear beside him, landing a punch that throws him across the room and into the far wall. Deans screams stop, whatever pain he was causing him vanishes but they remain pinned in place. 

  “There she is!” John practically cheers, picking himself up with ease. The Colt launched out of his hand.

  “You want to fight someone, I’m right here piss eyes!” I shout. My powers thump in my veins like fire igniting down my hands; if he’s going to hurt anyone, let it be me. 

  He laughs. A short singular little laugh.

  “You want to hear something funny?” I ask, stepping closer, my body shaking with an anger I cannot control. “I was the last thing your kids saw before they died.” I take another step closer, “I fucking tortured them! I messed with her mind until she couldn’t take it anymore. I threw that guy around like he was a fucking ragdoll, ‘wrapped him around a pole like he was a damn car!”

  Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not proud of the things I’ve done—I can barely stand myself but for some reason I just kept talking.

There’s an invisible force thrown at me, trying to pin me to the wall again, but I don’t budge.   

“Where was all this bite when Daddy was beating you?” He mocks, using a mere look to send me flying back. Old images flash in my mind, a simple reminder enough to bring them forth. The force put onto me is stronger than before, something harder to tear through.

  He walks over to me, a force wrapping around my throat tightly. I choke on the lack of air, my eyes watering at the restriction. 

  “Stop!” Dean shouts, fighting against the force that pins him there. His shout ends in coughing, blood I hadn’t seen before pouring from his mouth. 

  “Shut up!” He barks, barely looking over at Dean. “You’re still the scared little girl that begged Daddy to stop.”

  His hold on my throat gets tighter, black dots swimming in my vision. The house creaks. The lights flicker rapidly. The floorboards rip open, great big roots bursting through them. They latch onto his legs, yanking him back and send him skittering across the floor.

  The lights stop flickering. A single light burns brighter and brighter, igniting the room in a sharp bang of white before the bulb bursts. I break through his force again, crumbling to the floor as I suck in breath after breath—my throat and chest burning. 

  “I should gut you the same way I did dear Jess and Mom!” The yellow eyed demon roars. The roots return to the earth, creeping away from the fight. 

  I suck in one last deep breath before pushing myself to my feet. 

  “You have to shoot him!” Sam yells. 

  I know I do. I can’t fight him forever. He’s powerful. There’s only so much more back and forth that can happen. 

  I reach out for the gun with one hand the other directed on him. I push him to his knees, purple tendrils keeping him in place.

  The Colt slides across the floor to my feet. I pick it up, the metal cold in my hands. I aim at his chest. He stops fighting the restraints. 

  “You kill me, you kill John. Those two will never forgive you. You’ll always be a monster to them.”

  “I know,” I croak. I cock the gun, the click ringing in my ears. I press the trigger, aiming at his thigh. Dean and Sam fall to the floor, the demons hold gone. The demon crumbles the rest of the way to the floor, the tendrils letting him go.   

  “Oh God, you’ve lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of blood! Y/N!” Sam shouts, panic weaven in his voice. 

  Dean. 

  Immediately I spin around, avoiding the hole in the floor and wood chips as I rush towards them. Dean lies on the floor with too much blood soaking his shirt and dribbling from his mouth. I fall to my knees beside him, pressing the gun into Sam’s hand without a second thought. Dean repeating the order of “Go check on him,” to his brother. 

  Sam gets up reluctantly, taking the gun with him. 

  I don’t know where to touch him. I can’t tell where he’s hurt, just that he’s bleeding. He’s turned his head to look at me and I can’t read the expression in his eyes. I carefully touch his cheek, my other hand high on his chest to avoid possibly hurting him more. His head leans more into my hand. 

  “It’s okay. I got you,” I say, my hands lighting up with a soft glow that makes his lips part. I focus on him. I try to find what’s wrong. I try to figure out what that demon did over the sound of John yelling.

  “Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!,” he shouts. 

  I, internally, search through Dean’s body, light guiding the way to internal bleeding. 

  “Do it now!” John orders. 

  Dean’s head whips the other way, leaving my hand to face his father and brother. “Sam, don’t you do it. Don’t you do it.” 

  Light wraps around damaged blood vessels, knitting them back together. Dean sucks in a sharp breath of air.

  “You’ve gotta hurry! I can’t hold onto it much longer! You shoot me, son! Shoot me! Son, I’m begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy!” John pleads.

  “Sam, no,” Dean says weakly.

  “You do this! Sammy!! Sam.....”

  Black smoke shoots from his mouth, seeping into the floor. 

********

  “Sam! Drive faster!” I demand from the back seat of the Impala, hands still on Dean who’s slumped against the left hand door. 

  “Hold on, alright. The hospital's only ten minutes away,” Sam answers. 

  I repaired as many blood vessels as I could but I could not do anything about the blood he had lost. And he lost a lot. 

  “You fought good,” he mumbled to me, eyes lidded and face pale, when we first got into the car.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I answered quietly. I wouldn't consider it good at all. Psychotic? Probably. But not good. 

  “I’m surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn’t you kill it?” John asks from the passenger seat, gasping in pain every now and then. “I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first – before me, before everything.”

  Sam looks in the rear view mirror, looking at his brother. “No, sir. Not before everything. Look, we’ve still got the Colt. We still have one bullet left. We just have to start over, alright? I mean, we already found the demon…”

  Something hits the Impala hard. Everything goes black. 

(Next Chapter)