Forget the Dragon for lyryk, part three

[summergen_mod]

Title: Forget the Dragon
Creator: ladykik
Recipient: lyryk

Part Two



Sam didn't know what to do. He was really sick and tired of not knowing what to do.

Dad had said he had Dean. Dad wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t—unless he just wanted Sam to think he had Dean because he knew Sam would worry. Dad lied to keep them safe, Sam knew that, but surely he wouldn’t lie about this?

Or what if that hadn't been Dad? What if his brain had just thought Dad had called and told him what he wanted to hear? Except he didn’t want to go to the funny farm, even if it felt like he needed to. But if he’d made up Dad, then Maja could have Dean. He couldn't leave Dean in the hands of monsters. But if he couldn't trust what he saw, how was he supposed to fight monsters to help Dean? What if he hurt Dean by mistake?

Helplessly, he looked around the lot, the once-vivid colors leached to shadows of shadow as the sun finished disappearing below the earth’s crust. There was no one there with him, no one to offer advice, just brick and trees, asphalt and grass, and the cold northern wind. He shivered, and shook his head.

Finally pushing into motion, Sam headed to the house, cutting across the neighboring properties to save time. Dad might've gotten home while he was gone, and he might’ve left Dean while he went searching for Sam, and if he did, all of Sam’s worrying was for nothing. Dean or Dad would be able to fix this and everything would be ok.

Except the house was dark and empty when Sam got there.

It didn’t matter. Well, it did, but he still had a way to contact Dad. He hadn’t wanted to because Dad didn’t like it when they called him during a hunt, but this was an emergency. He snatched the phone up and dialed.

It was Dean who’d made him memorize Dad’s number. "You need to be able to get in touch with him in case something happens to me," he'd said. Then turned around and said nothing would. Sam had nothing to worry about.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

On the fifth ring, when Sam’s stomach was just about done tying itself in knots, a gruff voice snapped: "What?"

"Dad!" Sam gasped, relieved by the brusque greeting.

"Sam," Dad growled. "I'm in the middle of a hunt. I don't have time for this."

Abruptly, the relief dissipated, swallowed by a block of ice. "You mean Dean's not with you?"

"He's supposed to be with you," Dad growled. He said more, probably, but Sam didn't hear him, distracted by the confirmation that Dad wasn't looking for him, had never been looking for him, and hadn't even known he should have been—hadn't even known Dean wasn't around to take care of Sam.

Which meant the wraith's mom had Dean.

Monsters lie, Sam, Dean's voice said.

Sam twisted around, looking for his brother. But Dean wasn't there. He wasn't there and he wasn't with Dad, and Sam couldn't take the chance that Maja had lied. He dropped the handset on the table.

"Does that mean you're ready to take my help?"

He looked at Not-Victoria sharply, the girl leaning against the wall casually—like Dean usually did. "How did you get in here?"

She tipped her head toward the front door.

He'd salted it before he went to bed the night before. But when he looked, a heel had scuffed through the middle, scattering white crystals across the foyer. A vague memory tickled his mind—tripping as he got the door open, foot dragging before he found his balance. He’d been too distracted to fix it.

Not-Victoria raised her eyebrows. "Well?"

"Who are you?"

She huffed a laugh through her nose. "I thought we already did this, Sammy, but fine. You can call me Tori."

"You're not Victoria.”

"And Dean's not getting any safer. You wanna do this or not?"

Not, he thought. But he couldn't remember reading anything about wraiths in his dad's journal. And he hadn't come across anything in the library. Maybe he'd missed it, but did Dean have enough time for him to go searching, particularly if he came up empty? The answer puckered his lips. "Yes," he told her.

"Great!" Tori pushed off the wall, clapping chop-chop. "Grab your silver knives and let's get this show on the road. I've got a car."

*

She took him to a warehouse. It was full dark when they got there, the building all but invisible in the gloom. He could see enough to know it was big, the roof stretching above them for at least two stories. If there were any lights on inside, he couldn't see them.

"This is the place?" he asked dubiously, just to double-check.

"81-99 East Cold Spring Road."

He wished Dean was here. But if Dean was, he wouldn't need to go in.

Determinedly, he pulled his backpack into his lap, pulled out Dean's silver knife and passed it to Tori, then pulled out his own and a flashlight. He turned to her, guilt dragging at his stomach. He only had one flashlight.

"I'm good," she assured him.

There were three garage-door style doors big enough for semis to drive through, but they bypassed them in favor of the people-sized door on the right. It was open, so they slipped inside, Sam keeping watch while Tori eased the door shut behind them.

When he felt her at his shoulder, he glanced back. Her eyes were black pits in the darkness. He didn’t think her eyes were actually black, but it still reminded him he was hunting with a demon, the same thing that killed mom. Dad would've ripped him a new one.

"Ready?" he whispered.

"Waiting on you, cupcake."

It was weird hunting without Dean. His brother always insisted on going first. And while he probably could have sent Tori in first—Dad probably would have preferred that to him having a demon at his back—the demon wouldn't protect Victoria. That was Sam's job.

At least until he got Dean back.

Setting his jaw, Sam steadied his grip around the knife, then clicked on the flashlight. The little sound seemed loud in the darkness, but nothing came at them. Nothing moved. He kept the light aimed low, knowing the beam made him easy to spot.

They progressed slowly. Most of the floor was open, forklifts and beams and other things Sam couldn't readily identify stacked mostly along the walls. They wove in and out of each one, checking them from all sides. It felt like it took forever to clear the ground floor, but they did it. Which left the row of offices up an exposed, metal staircase.

Sam paused at the bottom, head cocked to listen, but he couldn't hear any voices or hint of movement. That worried him. This whole thing worried him. Shouldn't they have heard something by now, either from Dean or the wraith?

"Don't pussy out now, Winchester," Tori hissed in his ear.

He swallowed hard, then put his foot on the far side of the first step. He expected a creak when he put his weight on it, but it stayed quiet. The next step was easier and just as quiet.

He tucked the flashlight behind his body as they reached the top of the stairs, felt his heart jump when he saw light glowing beneath one of the closed doors. Far as he could tell, that was the only occupied room.

Clicking off the flashlight, he tucked it into his pocket, cautioned Tori to silence, then crept forward. The metal catwalk rang softly under his feet, the faint resonance only audible because of the complete silence around them, but it put him on edge, made him sure whoever was in that room could hear it, too.

At the door, he paused again and thought he heard something shift, a faint groan that jolted his heart with thoughts of Dean. He turned to check Tori was ready, then counted down from three, tucking his fingers down into his fist.

He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, bright but not blinding, and Sam quickly took in the scene—the blonde-haired blue-eyed woman pulling a long stick out of the brain of a guy Dad's age, the two others slumped in chairs, hurt but not dead.

None of them were Dean.

"Oh. You smell delicious, dear," the woman said. She looked just like an older Maja.

The door closed behind him. He didn’t have time make sure Victoria was behind before the young couple in the chairs looked up. Their eyes glowed red, and their mouths expanded into sharp-tooth muzzles, growls rising in their throats, deep and vicious. Their hands, curled into claws, came up, nails lengthening into jagged knives. Monsters, not victims. Not bound.

They lunged.

Instinctively, Sam lashed out. Knocking the nearest one back, he slipped to the side, twisted away from the raking claws and struck again, and again, and again, until the monsters were bloody carcasses and it was just him and Mama Maja.

"Well," she mused while Sam struggled to catch his breath, "I guess that's what happens when you give a crazy person a knife."

He blinked, the words not quite right. Her speculative gaze caressed the bodies at his feet. When Sam followed her gaze, he didn’t see the wolf-like things he’d killed. He found humans—human skin streaked liberally with blood, human eyes staring fixedly at nothing, human fingers spread in helpless defense. His stomach flipped.

Then something slammed into the back of his head, and he fell into darkness.

*

Victoria—no, not Victoria. Tori—was watching him when he pried his eyes open and his head up, rolled it back against the wall so he could see. His head ached, a nowhere throb that seemed to echo and bounce around his skull. He’d expected to wake up bound to a chair, but he was on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the wall.

His eyes shied away from Victoria’s—Tori’s amused and unconcerned concern, looking for Dean like he had all his life.

He found the victims' bodies, instead. He swallowed thickly against the bile that tried to push up his esophagus.

Tori didn’t have any such concerns. She slapped his thigh. "Welcome back.” There was a bruise on her check, darkening around her eye, fading to red along the edges. It looked sharp and painful over her cheekbone. "You ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

"What about them?" He couldn’t quite make himself look straight at them. He’d done that. Not the wraith--him.

"Dead," she said carelessly. "You wanna call it in to the cops, that's your choice. But I'd suggest we get moving if you want any chance of getting to your brother while he's still alive."

That grabbed his attention, spine coming to attention. "What?"

Tori smirked. "Mommy dearest let slip where she hid the handsome one. So, you coming or what?"

She stood without waiting for Sam, without looking back or offering him a hand, without clapping him on the shoulder or herding his down the stairs. It hurt, the proof that Dean wasn't there. But she also wasn’t Dean. She couldn’t replace him, and he wouldn’t have stood it if she’d tried.

But he’d get Dean back, Sam promised himself as he pushed the pain away—physical and emotional—and gained his feet. He'd make this right.

His gaze skirted the victims when he left, not wanting to see their empty, damning eyes.

*

Tori didn't turn on any music when they climbed back into the car. Sam wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not. He was definitely not grateful for the fact that she seemed impervious to cold, cruising with the window down, one arm dangling against the outside of the car. Sam huddled against the passenger door, legs drawn up and hands pulled into the sleeves of his sweatshirt then buried in the kangaroo pocket. And he still felt like he was shaking.

Or maybe that wasn’t the cold. He stared out the side window, unseeing. He'd killed people. Innocent people. How was he supposed to hunt if he couldn't tell the people from the monsters? How was he supposed to rescue Dean?

"I've got something that could help you with that," Tori announced.

Sam hadn’t realized he said any of that out loud, and he turned his head in surprise, but she kept her eyes on the road. Maybe she’d read his mind. "Help with what?"

"Your little problem? You know, the reason you went psycho on Mr. and Mrs. Beaver?” He scowled at her even though she couldn’t see it. “I can make that go away. You'll feel stronger, faster. Most importantly—" She threw him a smirk. "—your head will be clear. And it’s easy as pie. Easier, really, since you don’t need an oven or any skill."

Monsters lie, Dad’s voice growled, but he didn’t need the reminder to know things that sounded too good to be true usually were. “What’s the catch?” he asked.

“No catch.”

"Then why didn't you give it to me before?"

Her expression was disturbing sober and sympathetic. "Because you weren’t ready."

His lips twisted in aggravated disgust. “And I’m ready now?”

She looked at him, long enough to make him worry about car crashes. “Maybe.”

He huffed, aggravated. It didn’t make it better that he couldn’t get the dead people out of his head, couldn’t stop seeing them. Plaintively, he asked, "How do I know you're not lying?”

She swept her hair out of her face with the hand that had been holding the steering wheel. "How do you know I'm not a figment of your imagination?"

He leaned his head against the window. He didn’t have an answer for her, but the blood didn’t go away. It scared him a little, what he thought he might do to make it go away.

*

Sam didn't know when he fell asleep, but he woke up in the house on the couch. He sat up, swung his legs over the side. The house was dark, no sign of Dad, but Sam needed to see Dean. He knew his brother was there. He could feel it in his bones.

Shadows moved like living things around the furniture. They darted ahead of him, playful, and Sam watched them with no fear. They were leading him to Dean, he knew, and he welcomed them. They would always help him find Dean.

They curled around his ankles in agreement, swirled up his calves and reached for his fingers, licked against the tips and then slipped away, followed behind him like obedient puppies. Power thrummed in his chest and the faint taste of blood lingered on the back of his tongue.

He strode into Dean's room, power flowing through him, and the shadows that had been leading him broke away and curled back, swept behind him, gathered and watched and waited. They knew better than to get between him and his brother.

Because Dean was there. Even with the certainty thrumming through him, he hadn't been able to really know until he'd seen. But Dean was there, waiting for him, blood glistening dark and wet against his skin, still warm in the hollow of his throat, hazel-green eyes so bright against his pale flesh, freckles like candy scattered over his cheeks and nose.

Are you ready, Dean? he wanted to ask, the words welling up in his throat like spilt blood, thick with anticipation and power. Are you ready, Dean?

*

Sam jerked awake when the car stopped. His gaze darted to the corners, looking for living shadows, but the foot well was clear. The seats and dash were clear.

The building in front of them surprised him—a 50s-style strip motel like Dad might've chosen—and he turned to ask Tori if they were there already, but she was gone. He slipped out of the car, glancing around, but they were practically the only ones there, the only other cars in the lot a silver one that probably belonged to the owner and a blue one parked in front of the second room down.

Tori waited in front of the desk clerk, face pinched in annoyance, but the clerk didn't seem to be paying attention to her. Sam padded closer, more than a little surprised she didn't warn him away.

When he stopped at her side, the clerk looked up. Surprise flashed across his face, followed by wary concern. Sam couldn’t say that was the usual reaction and it unnerved him, even before the clerk’s careful, "You alright, kid?"

"Fine." He checked Tori’s reaction but she just smirked, standing hipshot and expectant against the counter. He tried not to notice that the clerk was staring at his chest. "Can we get a room, please?"

The clerk paused in the middle of reaching for a pen, a stutter like scratch of the needle over a record. The clerk was older, like Dad, and balding, the top of his head shiny with sweat. "We?" he asked, and cast a surreptitious look outside, possibly hoping to see an adult leaning against the hood of the car, or maybe about to pull the door open. "Where are your parents?"

Still Tori didn't jump in and the clerk barely glanced in her direction. Sam shifted uncomfortably. No matter how often Dean said it was necessary, he still didn’t like lying. "O-outside. Dad's not feeling good. That's why we stopped. He really needs to lie down. Ok? Please?"

For a long minute, the man didn't move and Sam thought they'd have to make a run for it. Then he nodded slowly, hand creeping as he stretched for a set of keys. "Alright," he agreed. "But I'm going to need your dad to come in and sign for the room tomorrow morning, when he's feeling better. Alright?" He set the key down and slid it across the counter.

Sam took it with a muttered, "Thanks."

"Yeah. Thanks for nothing," Tori added snidely. Sam ducked his head, embarrassed, but the clerk didn’t react. He hurried for the door, the better to get them out of there before she said something they’d both regret.

He glanced back when he reached the door, though, checking the clerk's reaction, and saw him reach for the phone.

Tori saw it, too. "That fucker's gonna ruin everything."

She reversed direction. His eyes caught a flash of silver, but he barely had time to register what she was going to do before the knife cut the air and the clerk was dead, a great, bloody slash in his neck stretching from ear to ear. Sam felt the shock of it down to his feet. Another innocent, dead.

The injustice of it burned hot in his chest. He didn't move out of the way when Tori approached, forcing her to stop or run into him. She stopped, but she didn’t get it.

"You killed him!"

"Hello, demon,” she snarled back. “Of course, I killed him. He was going to call the cops. How were you planning to find Dean from behind bars?"

"We could have run!"

"Yeah?" She pushed her face uncomfortably close to his. "Well, we wouldn't've had to if you hadn't gone all Carrie at the warehouse. Now, stop being a pussy, and come on. You’ve gotta get cleaned up."

She snatched the key from his numb hand, shouldered him aside, and stalked outside. For the first time, Sam looked down at his hands, really looked at them, and felt his stomach swoop when he realized they were covered in blood. It stretched up the arms of his sweatshirt and down the front, and he could feel it, dry and itchy, on his face.

Jaw clenched against the bile trying to climb his throat, Sam followed her down to room 6 with careful steps, like that might stop the blood from touching him, from spreading and contaminating everything, and slipped into the room without a word.

"You want me to get your stuff?" she offered suddenly, voice still sharp and not looking at him, like Dean sometimes did when he was angry but felt bad about making Sam feel bad.

"I didn't bring a change of clothes," he admitted mutedly. Dad would have chewed him out for not being prepared, but Tori just scoffed and stalked out. He pushed the door closed behind her, then didn't know what to do. He looked down at his hands.

Know what you're hunting, Dad always said. We don't kill humans. So you turn your weapon on something that looks human, you better be damn sure it needs to die. You hear me, Sam?

Yes, sir.

But he hadn't been. He'd just reacted and now two people were dead. Innocent people. People he should have saved. Skin crawling, he yanked his sweatshirt over his head, fists jerking at the fabric, trying to tear it apart, trying to unmake it, but it just stretched and gave and survived—

With a roar, Sam slung it into the corner, barely hearing it slap against the wall and slide down, then stalked into the bathroom. He twisted the hot water on full blast, motions sharp and jerky, and shoved his hands under the spray while the water was still freezing. He scrubbed furiously, wishing he could take his skin off with the blood. Wished—

But if he was dead, who would save Dean? Dad? But Dad wasn't here. Dad had left them to go on a hunt and protect other people instead. No, it had to be Sam. It had to be.

More carefully, he got the rest of the blood off, then leaned over to begin cleaning off his face. By the time he was done, his hands were red from the heat, he had water dripping off his elbows, pinkish puddles surrounded the sink and dripped onto the floor, and his shirt was plastered to his skin. But when he looked in the mirror, his face was clean.

His soul wasn't, and Sam looked down quickly, twisting the water off with hands that wanted to shake. He kept his head down when he stepped back into bedroom, avoiding his reflection, and dried his hands on his pants. "Tori, I'm re—"

Tori wasn't there. The naked man was.

Startled, Sam stopped. His heart kicked against his ribs. Every muscle in the man's arms and chest was coiled tight, his face twisted in rage, but it was his eyes that held Sam in place. Bright blue, they burned with the desire to tear Sam into pieces, blast him apart atom by atom. Like before, though, the naked man didn't move.

Hands curling around his courage, Sam lifted his chin. "What do you want?"

Between one blink and the next, the naked man was right in front of him, barely a foot separating them. Before Sam had a chance to flinch, the man's hand flattened against his chest, each finger a brand that burned clear through his shirt. "You need to stop, Sam."

"What?"

“You need to stop, Sam,” he repeated.

"S-stop what?" he gasped.

But the man didn't answer. He wasn't there.

*

Sam felt like he was drowning. His chest burned and ached, filled with sadness and fear, horror and guilt, love and loneliness, and he didn't know where any of it had come from, why he felt it all now. But he did, and it burned in the back of his throat, making him feel small and helpless and so, so alone.

He wanted his dad.

The phone was on the nightstand. Sam stumbled to it on numb feet, put the receiver to his ear. The dial tone hummed like his blood, buzzed in his ears. He couldn't remember Dad's number past it until he heard Dean's voice: eight-six-six-five-five-five—

His fingers obediently punched the numbers. It rang once, twice—

"Sammy?" Urgent. Hopeful.

"Dad," he murmured, those stupid tears clogging his throat. He cleared them away, tried again. "Dad—"

"Sammy, where are you?"

He didn't know. His eyes darted around, slipped past and then caught on the complementary note pad. He rattled off the address at the bottom. "Dad—"

"You stay there, Sammy," Dad commanded, deep and rumbling and strong. "That's an order. You stay there. Got it?"

"Yea—"

"Sam?" Tori poked her head around the doorjamb, door flung wide. "Cops! We've got to move."

You need to stop, Sam.

"Aw," a different voice cooed—not the naked man's, not his father's, higher pitched than both—beside his ear. "Don't listen to him, Sammy. I've got great plans for you."

He whirled. The phone slipped down to his chest. His father's voice, small and distant, called: "Sammy?" The man had spiky blond hair, a long, angular face. When he smiled, his teeth were unnaturally white and straight, and his brown eyes turned yellow.

"What?" the man—demon—asked when all Sam did was stare. "Don't I get a hello? I've known you since you were a baby, after all. It's only polite. Your father taught you manners, didn't he? It's so important for young people to learn manners, nowadays, isn't it?"

Sam's throat clicked when he swallowed. "You leave my dad out of this."

"Sammy?"

The demon's attention dropped. Long fingers pointed at his chest. "Is that Daddy Dearest now? How wonderful! We can have a little reunion, get the whole family in one place. You'll be able to see how much he loves your gift."

"What gift?"

"Why," the demon drawled, "the one I'm going to give you."

He remembered Tori telling him she had something to fix him, something that could make the hallucinations stop. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, remembered how quickly and easily she had killed the clerk. It’d been the Yellow-Eyed demon that killed his mom.

"I don't want it," he said quickly, before he could think of the couple on the warehouse floor.

The demon crouched so his face was level with Sam's. "You don't even know what it is yet. You might change your mind."

"I won't," he declared confidently, even as he felt his body start to shake.

The demon's smile was slow, snake-like, his voice a matching, sibilant hiss by Sam's ear. "Your mother did." Then he pulled back. It felt like he took the carpet with him, dropping Sam in a world oriented differently than it had been. "All it would take is a drop. Think about it."

"Sammy, answer me!"

The door stuttered into the wall, drawing Sam's attention back around. Belatedly, he realized the door was open. The police officer standing ready just inside the room levelled his gun at Sam's chest. "Police!" he called redundantly. "Don't move! Hands where I can see them!"

His tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth. Dad would’ve known what to say. Sam couldn’t think. He moved his hands away from his sides obediently. It pulled the wet fabric away from his skin, letting cool air in, and he shivered, wished for his sweatshirt, even if it was covered in blood. His stomach twisted.

There were muffled voices outside. The officer tilted his head to listen, then raised his voice: "Over here! I've got him!"

Footsteps, then, more than one set, and Sam braced for the officer's partner to round the doorway. One of them would move to cuff him once backup arrived, and Sam needed to have his next move figured out by then. As if he had any moves. The cop was in front of the only exit.

He wasn't expecting Maja's mom, but it was her blonde-haired, blue-eyed face that peered around the doorjamb and smoothed from worried to fondly maternal when she caught sight of him. "There you are, sweetheart. I've been worried sick about you. Why ever did you run off like that?"

Run off?

Sam darted a look at the officer, but his expression never flickered. His stance never wavered. If he thought it was weird to have a civilian on-scene, he didn’t show it. He treated the woman like back, taking her presence as permission to enter the room, keeping his knees bent and gliding smoothly along the wall until he came level with Sam, pivoting to keep him centered in his crosshairs. The wraith trailed smoothly behind, never once coming between Sam and the gun.

But the wraith didn’t keep her distance. She walked right up to Sam, and between the wall and the gun, he didn’t have anywhere to go. His instincts insisted he run, but he couldn’t move.

The wraith cupped his face, tsked. "Oh, you poor dear. Whatever happened to you? How would you like to get out of those wet clothes, hm?"

"Ah—" Why didn’t the cop care that he wasn’t working with his partner?

Fingers light as spider silk brushed his arm, drawing his attention back to the wraith in time for her to close her hand around the phone and pull it from is hand. He tightened his grip momentarily, stupidly reluctant to release that connection to his dad, but the cop perked up with his resistance, trigger finger tensing in readiness, and Sam let it slip through his fingers.

Whatever else, he couldn’t save Dean if he was dead.

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the door even as the wraith grabbed his wrist and used it to draw him forward. He barely noticed the touch or the movement, too busy staring at the clerk in the doorway, white bone shining bright in the gaping red wound in his throat.

He blinked hard, thinking the man might disappear, but he didn't. Revenant? But why didn’t anyone else see him? Why didn’t he attack? "Why are you doing this?” he asked.

It was the cop who answered. "You came here to kill us, Sam Winchester. You didn't really think we'd take that lying down, did you?"

Hard hands closed over Sam's shoulders, biting down to the bone and pressing, pressing, pressing, until it felt like his legs would buckle and the floor would crack and he'd be driven down into the center of the earth. Then the pressure was gone, and the hands, and he stumbled forward, crashing to his hands and knees. He barely felt the ground, the sting of impact, before he scrambled forward, arms and legs moving frantically.

Every moment, he expected to feel hands snatching at his legs.

He looked up. The doorway was clear. He gained his feet as he reached it, twisted to see how far back they were, and slammed into something solid. Air whooshed out of his lungs. Arms wrapped around his chest. He collapsed his legs, pulling his captor forward and off-balance, then planted his feet and threw his head back. The arms banding him loosened. Aiming high, he threw an elbow, stayed close and followed it with a jab.

If they thought he was going to just lay down and die when they were trying to kill him, they had another think coming.

The cop carried a Taser. He might’ve also carried a gun but the Taser was there, right in front of Sam's eyes, right under his hand. He pulled it while the cop was still trying to find his breath, got it aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The prongs buried deep in the cop’s abdomen. Electricity pumped into his nervous system, and the cop dropped, twitching and rigid.

Sam kept his finger on the trigger while he got the lay of the land. Red and blue strobed the darkness. A cop car and an ambulance sat in front of the office, doors open but personnel nowhere in sight, presumably inside with the corpse. The corpse he’d seen—thought he’d seen. He didn’t see it now.

The light was on in the other occupied room, the blue car still parked in front of it. Darkness the other way. He didn't see Victoria. Her car was where they'd left it.

Someone would come looking for the cop soon.

He couldn't be here when they did. He’d gotten lucky this time. It wouldn’t happen again. But run or drive? They'd probably hear the car.

The car was faster.

Decision made, he dropped the Taser and ran low and fast for the car. The passenger door was closest, so he pulled it open, slipped in that way, and pulled it quickly and quietly shut behind him. The keys were in the ignition.

Every second, he expected someone to poke their head out of the office and raise the alarm.

Soon, the monster in cop's clothing would regain control of his limbs and alert his friends.

Sam turned the key. The roar was more housecat than lioness, but it still carried in the still air. He wrenched the gear shift to Reverse, looked over his shoulder, and stepped on the gas. The car jumped and ran like it'd been goosed, rolled straight over the grass and curb, into the street, bouncing hard enough to rattle Sam's head. In the middle of the street, Sam stomped the brake, put the car in Drive.

Three people had spilled out of the office, one of them the other officer. The cop's eyes met his, head tilting so he could talk into the radio on his shoulder.

Sam stepped on the gas. Buildings and lights passed by in a blur. Signs. He darted compulsive glances as he drove because he needed a new car. Cops—even monster cops—could track this one now that they'd seen it. So he had to dump it. He wanted badly to pull off to the side of the road and run, but he also needed to find Victoria, and they'd need transportation when he did so they could get Dean.

Dad liked long-term parking at the airports, but Sam didn't know where the nearest airport was. It didn't have to be an airport, though. It could be a dealership, or a commuter car park—anywhere that had a lot of cars in one place.

The blue and white Wal-Mart sign caught his eye. He stomped the brake, swerving into the turn lane, and craned his neck to peer out the rear-view mirror. The few headlights were distant, no red-and-blue among them. He dared to feel relief, throttled the car back to a crawl, and took the turn into the parking lot at an easy pace.

It felt wrong, conspicuous. Like he was floating in the open with a target on his back just asking to be shot. His leg cramped with the effort not to give it more gas.

He turned down the middle aisle, wringing the steering wheel as his gaze darted from car to car. Dad told them to look for older cars, ones no one would miss. But Sam couldn't see how anyone would not miss a car they took shopping. None of them looked any more likely than the others, not to him.

He reached the end of the row, having passed three parking spots that looked too small, and took a left in front of the store. There was a space, two cars in, that Sam hesitated in front of, feeling the press of too long, too long squeezing his insides. He huffed, hit the gas, and drove to the end of the line. It wouldn't be as hidden, but he didn't have to worry about hitting anyone.

Leaving the keys in the ignition, he leaned across the seat, grabbed his backpack, and slipped into the really freaking cold air. His skin immediately prickled with goosebumps and he shivered hard. The still-damp fabric over his chest felt like ice. The car door sounded really loud when he pushed it shut, but there was no one else in the parking lot.

It felt like there were watching eyes everywhere.

Keeping one eye on the store's exits and one eye out for incoming traffic, Sam went down the line of cars, giving each door handle a quick tug before moving to the next. He crouched, but thought that looked suspicious. He felt too exposed standing up. Walking took too long, but running would draw attention.

The door of some sedan opened, and Sam slipped inside. He ran his hands under the seat, checked the center console, the visors, the glove compartment, but he didn't find any keys. He needed the keys. When he got Dean out of this, he was going to insist Dad teach him to hotwire a car.

He closed the door behind him, went for the next. Locked, locked, locked. . . . He ducked into a yellow car that opened, but came up similarly empty. Kept going.

A couple girls came out of the store, and Sam ducked behind an SUV. He craned his head to keep them in sight, slipped around to the other side when they passed the vehicle he hid behind. The seconds pressed in while he waited for them to climb into their own car and leave, itching under his skin like ants.

When he ran out of cars, he crossed to the next row.

A guy came out of the store while he was searching an Oldsmobile. It had taken longer than the others; the glove compartment was stuffed, and he had to pull almost half of the odds and ends out to make sure he hadn't overlooked them. Then the center console had been filled with change and key rings. Most of them didn't have keys, or at least not car keys, but he'd thought he'd seen one.

Then movement made him look up. His heart about leapt out of his chest because the guy was right by the back bumper, heading straight for Sam. He plastered his back to the seat and slid down. He didn't know what good hiding would do when the guy opened the driver's door and found Sam, but announcing his presence was stupid.

In the side mirror, he saw the guy round the rear bumper, head down while he fumbled his keys. Sam could maybe jump out the passenger side before the guy realized Sam had been in his car. Sam could say he'd gotten lost. That'd he gotten scared and needed to hide. That he hadn't meant to.

Then the guy looked up. Just for a moment, he looked straight into the mirror, straight at Sam, and his eyes flashed yellow. Sam felt every muscle in his body lock tight.

The seconds passed—one, two—The guy slid into view, tall enough Sam couldn't make out his face, even slid as low as he could get without crouching in the foot well, with broad shoulders and the same rolling walk as Dad, aware and dangerous. He slid into view and kept going, back to Sam as he passed the front of the car, stopped at the truck parked kitty corner to the Oldsmobile. When the guy ducked into the car, Sam slid out of sight.

He clutched the bottom of the steering wheel and stared intently at the window, counted off the seconds. How long to get his limbs inside—he heard the door smack closed—how long to get his purchases settled, the seatbelt on, check the mirrors—he heard the engine surge and growl, and waited until he couldn't hear it anymore, then waited five more seconds. Slowly, he pushed back up, craned his head up to make sure the car was gone—it was—his breath whooshed out when his back hit the seat.

It took a minute to stop shaking enough to finish checking the center console. Nothing.

The next six cars wouldn't open when he pulled the handle. There were only about three dozen cars in the lot, and he'd checked almost half of them. The possibility that he might not find another car nagged at him. What would he do then? Hide away in the back until the owner came out? Hope they didn't check the trunk? Follow them into the house and steal their keys? Or hold them up and take them.

But then they'd report the car stolen and he'd be right back where he was.

His hand had just brushed the next door handle when something made him look up. They were by the car—Victoria's car. The wraith and some guy that might have been the police officer or might have been someone else. Sam had a hard time focusing on him. But he could see the wraith fine, her pale skin and blonde hair practically glowing in the moonlight.

She put her hand on the car, then scanned the parking lot. Sam ducked before her eyes could land on him, getting low and shifting to the put the most car between them. How had she found him?

Silence.

No one raised an alarm, but then, Dad and Dean wouldn't have raised one, either. He glanced down the length of the car across to the other aisle. It was empty, but it might not stay that way. Or it might, while they circled around and got behind him. Pushing up slowly, Sam craned his head until he could peek through the nearest window.

It didn't help.

Cautiously, he shifted right along the back of the car until he could peer around the side. The wraith just stood there, scanning the parking lot, hands on her hips. He couldn't see her companion.

Then she started speaking, loud enough to carry across the parking lot. "I know you're here, Sam Winchester. I can smell you." There was a pause, her nose lifted like a dog scenting the air. "If you knew how good you smell, you wouldn't resist me, Sam."

Fat chance. He sank back into a crouch, checking his surroundings. He needed to figure out what he was going to do.

He wanted to kill her. If she was dead, she wouldn't be able to hurt Dean or Dad or Victoria. But maybe he wouldn't be able to find Dean if he killed her. Tori was the one who knew, and he didn't know what had happened to her. Maybe the wraith had already gotten her.

Or maybe she was back at the motel where Sam had left her.

"You can't hide from me forever, Sam," the wraith said. "I can feel you. Smell you. No walls, no distance, no amount of running, will keep me away from you. You belong with me, Sam. Make this easy on both of us."

Movement to the right drew his attention. The guy had slipped past him, almost to the end of the row. Sam needed to move. He needed a car now.

Squatting, Sam duck-walked as quick as he could to the next aisle, slipped between the nearest cars to the far row. He tugged the car doors as he passed without lifting out of his crouch, kept moving when they didn't open. He popped up next to a truck to check the enemy’s locations—far away and not looking at him—and caught a glint out of the corner of his eye on the way back down.

Keys.

His heart jumped. He pulled the handle, part of him already climbing into the car, but the door didn't budge. He pulled it again, then again. No—he needed those keys. He didn't have any other options! Instinct pulled his gaze left, locking with the wraith's bright blue eyes. An electric jolt shot down his spine like a whole body cattle prod, terror and adrenaline mingling to wipe everything else out except need. He yanked the handle—stumbled when the door opened.

The companion had seen him now, too, and he started running.

Sam didn't question it, just slung his backpack in and grabbed the keys, hauled his butt into the seat and the door closed and jammed the key in the ignition. The truck roared to life. He couldn't touch the back of the seat and the pedal at the same time, had to sit forward on the edge of the seat just to manage the pedal so it felt like playing dress-up with his dad's leather jacket, but he didn't care, just put the car in Drive and clung to the steering wheel.

The truck leapt forward and he fell back and he scrambled to get the wheel turned away from the other cars, scrambled to get it straightened back out, scrambled to get his foot back on the gas, watched with anticipation the accomplice scrambling to get out of the way of the truck as it charged toward him.

He headed for the highway, then, going back the way he’d come, and clamped down tight against the feeling that he was spinning off into nothing.

Part Four