Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward Son ❯ Chapter Five ( Chapter 5 )

Wayward Son

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews guys. I really do appreciate them.

Chapter Five

As soon as they were settled in the roadside motel outside of Lawrence, Dean disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He reached behind his head, grabbing a fistful of his gray T-shirt and pulled it off, throwing it into the corner of the room. He turned on the cold tap, letting it run while bracing both hands on the sink's edge.

In the other room he could hear Sam speaking and he felt a sharp spike of anger. Sam knew that he would still be able to hear the exchange in the other room, it was impossible for him not to. A life time of hunting in the dark had honed his hearing, making it easy for him to track a monster by sound alone. Sam had politely waited for Dean to go into the bathroom not to protect his modesty, but Delilah's. It would be easier for her to speak if she didn't think Dean could hear them.

“Dean means well. He's just under a lot of stress right now. Please don't hold it against him.”

Sam was situated on the bed the furthest from the door, laying flat on his back. The trip had taken a great deal out of him like she had predicted, and he was looking a little gray around the edges. They had stopped at a drive-thru for food in town, and Dean had been tense the entire time with the expectation that she would scream for help. She had behaved, ordering only a salad and some yogurt, but the strain nearly broke the camel's back. Broke it, stomped on it and ground it into the floorboards.

She pulled out Sam's soup, breathing evenly to remain calm. She handed it to him, helping him to sit up without hurting his ribs so he could sip the warm broth.

“I don't, Sam. You almost died, and I know that puts a lot of strain on people. I understand that he is just doing his best to protect you.”

“It's more than that.”

She looked at him sideways, noticing how he dipped his head like he already said too much.

“How so?”

“Nothing. It's just---“

“What?” She turned her head to look at him fully.

“He's not going to be around much longer, and he just wants to make sure that I'm going to be okay.”

“Where is he going?” she asked, bewildered. From what she was able to see from Dean's interaction with Sam, he wasn't willing to be separated from his brother even for a few days. She had seen pit bulls hold on less tenaciously.

“Nowhere.”

Now that was a dead on lie that a two-year-old could spot. Her brow wrinkled as she tried to fit together a puzzle that was frustratingly missing more than just a few pieces.

“Look, Delilah. I know it's hard, but try not be offended by Dean. He's really not that bad of a guy.”

“I know, Sam. Amazingly enough, I was able to figure that out all on my own. And it's not entirely his fault either. I'm having some issues of my own, which shockingly have nothing to do with being kidnapped from my clinic in the middle of the night.” She smiled down at him, softening her words, but Sam could see a hint of darkness behind her eyes. He knew a secret when he saw one. His family thrived on them, wallowed in them, so when he saw the reflection of hers in her eyes, he backed off. Secrets were sacred.

He finished his soup, and she took the bowl, throwing it into the garbage, before lying back on the other bed, her food untouched. She looked towards the door that was only a few feet away. Dean had walked away, leaving the room, trusting her not to run for the cops. She thought about it briefly. Thought about running and leaving this whole crazy affair behind, but she couldn't. It wasn't Sam that held her. She already knew that he was going to be alright, barring a sudden infection that she found highly unlikely.

No, she stayed because of Dean. Not because he was handsome, and more than a little arrogant. Not even because he held her so tightly in his arms the night before. She stayed because for a few hours a day he made her forget. Whenever they would fight, blood would rush through her veins, pushing out her stagnant thoughts in a wave, and for just a moment, for the tiniest second, she felt like herself again.

For the past year she had been in a deep depression, the kind that prescription drugs and counseling could not banish. This temporary balm that she found almost seemed worse though. For the few minutes he took the pressure off her chest she could breathe, actually do more than just exist, but when the memory of what she had done came crashing back, that agony was compounded. It never really went away, just stored itself up until it hit her like a pair of fists right in the center of her chest.

There was no absolution for her at the clinic where she worked, and her only hope for forgiveness had taken her life six months ago. It was then, that Delilah started to think, that maybe Mrs. Gardner had it right. Perhaps this life just wasn't worth living. Some mistakes just couldn't be corrected by a life time of penitence.

She sighed deeply, staring up at the ceiling, her arms crossed behind her head.

“I have entirely too much baggage,” she said mostly to herself. Sam didn't respond and she didn't expect him too. She rolled over to stare at the wall, listening to the water run in the bathroom.

Delilah's words echoed somewhere deep inside of Dean.

Don't we all, he thought as he bent down to splash cold water on his face and chest. Don't we all.

*~*

 

Sam fell into an exhausted sleep early, and eventually Delilah sat down to eat when Dean did. They didn't say anything, but as they sat across from each other at the small round table, it was almost comfortable. It was more like a family sharing a meal than that of a homicidal kidnapper forcing his victim to choke down her last supper. So Delilah supposed that her life could be a hell of a lot worse right at that moment.

She tucked herself into bed, intending to turn in early as well, only to look up to see Dean standing over her, handcuffs out. She rolled her eyes. Not the barest flutter that she would hide when a colleague would say something she heartily disagreed with, but a full on, `I'm in teenage rebellion mode and I think you are a moron,” roll.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I just have to be sure that you won't try to slip out of here in the middle of the night and call the cops.”

“If I wanted to run, I could have done it while you were in the bathroom.”

He gave her a look that clearly said that she could have tried, and she would have failed. It made her hesitate for just a moment; his intense self confidence was just a little unsettling.

“I can't believe that you don't trust me.”

He just lifted his shoulder in a half shrug that she was really starting to hate.

“This conversation is so butt-ass-backwards. I'm the one who got kidnapped. I should be the one having the trust issues, not you.”

“You trust me?” It was a loaded question, but she wasn't sure what with. There was the obvious, hell no, you kidnapped me, response, but it almost seemed that he was asking her something deeper. Asking if she trusted him on a whole other level that went beyond their immediate situation and into something else a little more obscure. She didn't know what to say to that. She was so fucked up at the moment that she couldn't even commit to a pet, much less a man whose life was way beyond the norm. And besides, was he even asking that or was her completely wacked out female mind reading way too much into three simple words?

She gave him one last disgusted look, and swept back the covers, scooting over to make room for him. She was getting pretty damn sick of those handcuffs, and besides she was exhausted. A whole year of exhausted. When he slept beside her, she didn't dream, and as far as she was concerned, that refuge was worth selling her soul to the devil.

 

88888

 

 

Madison sat rigidly in the straight back chair in the corner of the room, her hands fisted tightly in her lap. Behind her the angel perched on the back of her chair, white wings slashing back like a raptor ready to strike.

They both watched the convalescing shadow that floated over Dean who was curled protectively around Delilah. It had no form, no mass, just a dark miasma, but it was so vile that it made Madison's stomach clench. She knew that if it was still possible she would be tossing her cookies right there on the floor.

“Its feeding off the human's emotions. They are so intense right now. So many issues.”

She hated the way the angel said humans, like they were less than it somehow.

“But we can use it, right? As an exchange?”

She could feel the angel shift behind her, but she remained unmoving.

“This was always meant to be Delilah's sacrifice.”

Madison leapt from the chair, spinning around so she could glare at the angel. In the dark it seemed to glow with an ethereal light edged with gold. It's gray, bird-like eyes watched her intensely, and she felt a shiver race down her spine.

“You can't sacrifice Delilah. It's wrong. Besides Sam would never do it. You can't force him to choose between an innocent and his brother,” she spat righteously.

“She has already given up claim to her soul, whether she has taken her life yet or not.”

“It's not right. Especially when we have a spirit right here whose rightful place is in Hell.” She flung her arm towards the black mass in the room. It ignored them both as it hovered over the sleeping pair with malicious intent.

“Let's forget for a moment that you have no right to say who belongs in hell and who doesn't. Sacrifice is of the earth. It is ancient magic. It is the most powerful, the most visceral. It is life and death. The beginning and the end.”

“It's evil.”

“Forced sacrifice is sacrilegious, but a sacrifice of love nearly transcends God.”

“What are you talking about?” Madison rubbed her forehead, wishing that she was alive again and that her biggest problem was finding a missing case file for her pervert boss.

“You humans, you always have to organize things into neat categories. Good and Evil. Black and white. You have forgotten what your primitive ancestors already knew, that the world is painted in shades of gray. A mother gives a piece of herself so her child can be born in a bath of blood. The old die to give way to the young. It is the way of the world.”

“If the world isn't black and white, then why do you exist? Why do demons exist? Why are there a heaven and a hell, a God and a Devil?”

A small smile flitted across the angel's flat lips, almost like a reward, like she had just picked five out of six winning numbers for the lottery.

“The power of a billion conscious minds is greater than any God.”

“What? What does that mean? Why do angels and demons always speak in cryptic code?”

The angel leapt off its perch on the back of the chair, landing before her in a flurry of feathers. It smirked down at her from its great height.

“If we told you humans the complete truth, your brains would break.”

It turned on its heel, walking seamlessly through the wall and out of the room. Madison was left with her jaw hanging open, wondering if it was morally legal for an angel to crack a joke at her expense.

 

888888

 

“So what's the deal with this place?”

Sam frowned in the backseat as he flipped though some papers that he had printed out that morning.

“It's a ghost girl. Her father locked his twelve year old daughter out of the house during a blizzard in the 1870's.”

“That's awful.” Delilah gasped. “Why would someone do that?

“According to the local reverends' journal at the time, the girl reminded her father of her mother who up and ran off with another man when she was just a baby. He beat her pretty bad most of her life, but when she reached puberty he finally just snapped and killed her.”

She frowned at the rickety farmhouse they were parked in front of. She could barely suppress the tiny shiver that skittered down her spine. As a scientist, she didn't believe in ghosts. As a woman who dealt with life and death on a daily basis, she couldn't deny that there was something beyond this world that she had little comprehension of. What she did know for a fact was that the house was giving her the creeps, and the tire swing that was swaying back and forth was totally wierding her out.

“So what are we doing here? Do you guys get a kick out of visiting supposedly haunted places?”

She missed the sideways glance that Dean shot her, too engrossed in the house in front of her. Sam was silent in the back seat a moment, even the rustling of paper was silent. Frowning she glanced back at him, but he ducked his head. She shot a glare at Dean, but he just smirked at her. Her feeling of weirdness intensified.

“Here.”

Sam reached over the seat, handing Dean a piece of paper. Delilah caught sight of a hand drawn sketch before Dean snatched it away from his brother, his eyes narrowed. Sam took the hint and sat back so he wouldn't open his wound.

“What's this?”

“It's a map of the house. Upstairs there's a room that's marked. In the room is an old desk. You need to break it open and retrieve something.”

Dean stared back at his brother, one eye brow cocked. Sam stared back, unmoving. Delilah watched them both nonplussed.

“Retrieve what, Sammy?” Dean finally broke the silence with an irate huff.

“I don't know. I guess you'll know when you see it.”

“Sam.” Dean's voice dropped low in warning.

“Look, spidey senses.” Sam waved his hands around his head crazily. “I don't know exactly. I just know it's important.”

“For a college student you are amazingly inarticulate.”

“Oh yeah? Spell inarticulate, Dean.”

“Bite me.”

Dean leaned forward, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. In the same smooth motioned he wrapped his strong fingers around Delilah's left wrist, pulling it towards the steering wheel.

“Wait.” The request wasn't screeched with outrage, which was probably why Dean hesitated. “Cuff my right wrist so I can turn around and tend to Sam if I need too.”

The look that she gave Dean was so full of resigned suffering that he almost forwent the whole thing. The hurt in her eyes wasn't worth the sense of security he felt knowing that she would be there when he got back, but it was worth knowing that Sam would be taken care of.

Wordlessly he cuffed her right wrist to the steering wheel, leaving her free to twist her body around so she could look at Sam over the back seat.

“Hey, Dean. Watch out for the third step,” Sam muttered, unable to look up from his lap for fear of catching Delilah's eye.

Dean didn't answer, and exited the Impala, circling around to get his sawed-off loaded with rock salt and a hatchet from the trunk. He threaded the hatchet through his belt at the small of his back and headed for the house, stealthily making his way up the front porch. He winded through the house, holding the EMF reader in front of him, searching for any cold spots or Slimer goo. Finding nothing on the first floor, he made his way up, leaping over the third step as he went. He followed Sam's hastily scrawled map, until he found himself standing over the desk that he had indicated with a big red X on the paper.

Dean sighed, wondering if little brothers the world over were a trial to all their older siblings or if he just got hit upside the head with the lucky pot. He braced his shotgun against the wall, taking out his hatchet and began working through his little brother issues on the antique furniture.

*~*

Delilah was regretting asking Dean to handcuff her right wrist to the steering wheel. Granted, she now had easier access to the back, but she had to sit at a slightly cockeyed angle in the front seat with her leg curled around in front of her, her foot dangling off the edge. She didn't need a PH.D to know that if she scuffed up Dean's interior with shoeprints that there would be hell to pay.

The unnatural angle put a lot of pressure on her wrist and the steel cuff was digging into her skin. She absently thought about sliding over to the driver's seat to get more comfortable, but frankly the car intimidated her. It wasn't her place to be behind the wheel of the wholly male, testosterone laden vehicle.

Determined to ignore her discomfort she stared straight ahead out the windshield at the farmhouse. The old tire swing was swaying listlessly and she frowned fiercely at it. She couldn't pinpoint the reason, but the swing was really wierding her out. There was something not quite right about it.

“I bet if you asked real nice, Dean would teach you how to pick the lock on those handcuffs.”

Slowly, Delilah turned to face Sam, a disbelieving eyebrow cocked high.

“That would be counterproductive on his end, don't you think?”

A wide grin spread across Sam's face and oh my, there wasn't one, but two dimples winking out from his baby face.

“Nah. Dean likes nothing more than showing off for the ladies.”

Delilah snorted loudly, nearly cringed when her mother's imperial voice sounded in her head, telling her that ladies should never be so crass. She turned away from Sam, not able to bear his crushed look and glanced back at the tire swing.

“I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at Dean.”

“Sam.” Her voice was filled with such exasperated annoyance that he stuttered to a stop before he could finish what he was going to say. She lifted her free hand to her forehead rubbing away the lines she knew were forming between her brows. Finally admitting that facing forward was too uncomfortable, she flipped around, kneeling on the seat, making sure that her feet didn't touch the upholstery. She looked Sam square in the eye, and she couldn't miss the trapped look on his face or the way he swallowed hard.

“You sure do apologize a lot for your brother.”

“Yah, well.” He gave a breathless chuckle that was meant to fill the silence without really answering her. She didn't let him off the hook, and instead she stared at him hard, drilling holes in his forehead.

“What did you mean that he wasn't going to be around for much longer?”

If she thought Sam was nervous before, it was nothing compared the tension that now filled the cab of the car.

“N-nothing.”

Delilah's eyes narrowed and Sam was reminded of a cat getting ready to pounce on a hapless mouse.

“How much longer, Sam?” Delilah was already running some worse case scenarios in her head, and being a doctor, they didn't involved happy endings.

“Three months,” Sam replied, his face a mask of misery. He dropped his eyes to his hands, trying to hide his agony from her. Delilah felt something hard hit her in the center of her chest. Her physician's mask slipped into place, and she didn't allow Sam to see the shock and hurt that she felt on the inside at the thought of Dean dying in three months. He seemed so healthy to her, so vibrant.

“What is it?” Her voice was toneless, a doctor's voice.

Sam looked up from his lap, his eyes startled. “W-what?”

“Leukemia? Congenital heart failure?”

“No!” Sam was shocked that she would jump to such a drastic conclusion, but then he really couldn't blame her. It wasn't like she was going to realistically hit on the real reason Dean wasn't going to be around in three months.

“Brain tumor?” Delilah's brow furled, trying to remember if she had seen any signs of degenerative brain damage. As far as she had seen, Dean's reflexes were superb, and he didn't have any memory defects that she had noticed.

“No, God, no. Nothing like that Delilah. He's---he's just going to leave,” Sam choked out.

“Leave? Like to another country?” Now she was totally confused. All this angst because Dean had to flee the States? Undoubtedly his criminal activities had a whole lot to do with that.

Sam didn't know what to say. Somehow he didn't think she would respond well to the truth. Well no, he's going a little further south than Mexico. You see in three months a hellhound is going to appear and tear Dean's soul out of his body and drag it down to hell where he will burn for eternity. Yah, that would go over well. Sam swallowed the bile that was building in the back of his throat at the thought.

“Sam?” Delilah prompted, and he swallowed again. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died a hard death in his throat.

Delilah felt something cold in the air, and shivers raced down her spine. There was a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and she turned to look. She didn't want to. She really didn't. Some long forgotten, primitive survival instinct was screeching in her brain, and her skin felt like it was shriveling on her bones.

In the driver's side, sitting inches from her was a little girl. Her skin was pasty white and lined with black veins. Her hair streamed down from the crown of her head like spilt ink, obscuring her face from view. She wore a ragged dark blue dress that looked like it had been fought over by wild dogs and scuffed, black ankle boots. Delilah felt the muscles in her throat clench, and her breath froze in her chest. The little girl turned towards her, and Delilah fell into the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen in her life.

*~*

Dean frowned at the folded square of parchment that he found on the inside of the desk. It was brittle around the edges, and he knew that if he tried to open it there was a good chance that it would tear at the folds. He had no idea why Sam thought an ancient piece of paper was so important, but he had learned long ago to trust his brother's spidey senses.

A horrifying scream rent the air, and he nearly hit the roof he jumped so high. No matter how much he teased otherwise, he was certain that his brother did not scream like a girl, which left only one other person.

He jammed the paper into his front pocket, and snatched up his shotgun and hatchet. He raced out the room and down the stairs, completely forgetting Sam's warning about the third step until it was too late. He felt the rotten wood give and he tried to leap forward before it shattered beneath his weight. He flung himself forward, pointing his shotgun above him, hoping to God that it wouldn't discharge and blow some import part of his anatomy off, like his head!

*~*

Delilah was crouched down against the floorboards, trying unsuccessfully to cram herself under the dash. She was screaming frantically, while yanking on the handcuffs that prevented her from running for her life. The little girl a.k.a. the scariest damn thing that she had ever seen in her life, was floating above her, simultaneously cackling and gurgling with glee at her terror.

She heard a foreign wracking sound from behind the girl, and then a loud boom nearly shattered her ear drums. Safety glass showered down around her, and the little girl disappeared in a swirl of black mist. Dean's face appeared, and she stopped screaming long enough to take a breath, before she started up again, this time using her no-no words.

“Get `em the fuck off me. Now! Goddamn it.”

She yanked on her wrist for emphasis, not even feeling the pain as the handcuffs dug deep into her skin. Dean grimaced when he saw the thin line of blood that was trailing down her arm. Hurriedly, he unlocked the cuffs, pocketing them before picking her up from the floor and dragging her out of the car so she would no longer feel trapped.

This time, much to his surprise given her last reaction to terror, she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest. Her fists were wrapped tightly in the labels of his leather jacket, and he doubted he could pry her off with a crowbar even if he wanted to. Secretly he had to admit that he didn't want too. Dean Winchester would gladly face down a demon fearlessly, but sobbing women usually made him turn tail and run. Yet all he wanted to do with this woman was to wrap his arms around her and assure her that she was safe. So going against everything his father had taught him, he did just that.

Eventually her sobbing trailed off to heavy breathing that was punctuated with the occasional sniffle. Dean shifted, wondering at which point this would become embarrassingly uncomfortable. He thought it would be pretty soon, but that was before he felt seeking fingers checking the pockets of his jeans. He pulled back just in time to see Delilah yank out the handcuffs that he had stuffed in his pants.

Her beautiful face formed into a mulish expression that would do any jackass proud as she stepped away from him and cocked her arm back to throw the offending bracelets as far away from the car as she could. He had to admit, for a girl she had a pretty good arm as he watched them disappear into a line of scrub brush.

“Never again,” she spat while eyeing him with merciless intensity.

Dean gulped. He was still trying to figure out the rules to this particularly twisted relationship and now he knew that, don't ever fucking tie me up again, was number one.

He didn't blame her. He had put her in danger. He had taken away her ability to defend herself or even the freedom to run away. He had hobbled her, and she had nearly paid the price. He had thought that she would be perfectly safe in the car while he went inside, but he had been wrong. He hadn't even the foresight to leave Sam a shotgun.

Oh, God, Sammy.

He ducked his head to look into the backseat of the Impala, relief unfurling in his chest when he saw that his brother was just fine and was grinning knowingly at him.

“I'm fine, Dean. Thanks for asking.”

Sam's Cheshire grin said it all. He knew that he had been forgotten in favor of a sobbing woman, and he found that to be incredible hilarious. After all, Dean was the one with snot on his jacket, not him.

Dean rolled his eyes and glanced back at Delilah who was still glaring daggers at him, waiting for his answer to her ultimatum.

“No cuffs. Got it.”

Delilah's whiskey eyes narrowed and he fought the urge to back up a step.

“No nothing. No more tying up the poor helpless doctor. That game has been strangled, beat and kicked to the ground enough already.”

A slow, wicked grin spread over Dean's handsome face, and Delilah could practically hear the dirty thoughts echoing around in his mind.

“Even if we---“

She held up a finger to silence him, her lips pursed into a school marm pucker.

“Don't even start with me,” she spat, and Dean wisely took her advice.

“Kay, got it.”

He held up his hands appealingly, waiting for her to look away before he circled around the car to look at the damage. The blast of rock salt had dispersed the dead girl's spirit for now, but it had also shattered the passage side window. It wasn't the first time that the windows had been blown out of his baby by gunfire, but it didn't make him any less pissed about it.

He folded his arms, glaring at the damage, when Sammy interrupted his internal rant about all things supernatural being out to piss on his car.

“So did you get it?”

“Huh?”

Dean glanced at Sam who was propped up against the back door. His window was rolled down and he was staring at Dean earnestly. It was then that he remembered why he had been upstairs in the first place. He fished the paper out of his pocket, handing it to Sam. The sleeve of his jacket rode up his wrist as he did so, revealing an already livid bruise forming on his arm.

“Dude! What happened?”

Delilah perked up a bit at the question, and he shot a glare at Sam that clearly told him to cool it.

“Nuthin'',” he muttered, but it was too late. The doctor had sniffed out an injury and she was determined to treat it.

“Let me see.” She circled around the front of the Impala, holding out her hand impatiently.

“It's nothing. I just forgot about that third step. It's not broke or anything.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” She waited, unmoving. Dean stared her down. She refused to blink.

“Dean, show the professional your owie and maybe she'll give you a lollipop.”

He actually snarled at his baby brother, bared teeth and everything. Sam didn't even blink at him. Delilah on the other hand took full advantage of his distraction to pull his arm towards her. His first instinct was to yank his hand away, but common sense chimed in. After all, he might as well take advantage of the fact that they actually had a doctor present during a hunt for once.

“Let's take your jacket off, so I can examine your arm.”

She tugged his sleeve over his hand, not waiting for him to respond. He shrugged it off, noticing how considerate she was being with his injury. Sam would have just yanked his jacket off and told him to stop being such a pussy if he so much as inhaled too sharply. Ah, brotherly love.

She prodded his wrist for moment, asking if it hurt when she rotated it. After a couple of minutes she seemed satisfied that it was only sprained, and asked for some ace bandages so she could wrap it. He went to the trunk, dug around for the first aid kit, and then grabbed up the second shot gun loaded with rock salt as an extra precaution.

He reappeared from behind the Impala with the sawed-off in hand, trying not to smirk when her eyes widened at the sight. She had been so engrossed in his wrist that she hadn't noticed his shotgun was on the roof of the car where he put it before pulling her out. Wordlessly, he passed the second gun through the window to Sammy, nodding approvingly when his brother wracked it with practiced ease.

He handed Delilah the bandage, staring at the crown of her head while she wrapped his wrist. He could see glints of red mixed with the blonde strands in the sunlight, making her hair shimmer with a fiery glow. He remembered the scent of it from the night before, how soft it had been against his cheek. His fingers twitched with the reflexive need to reach out and stroke it. He lifted his free hand, stopping before he completely embarrassed himself. To cover his faux pau he coughed and tossed a glance over to Sam who was watching with unabashed interest.

“So, Sam, have you figured out where the girl is buried? It's gonna be dark soon, and I'm sure she's going to be pissed about getting a round of rock salt to the back of the head.”

Delilah was done with his arm and he nodded his thanks to her. He didn't trust himself to speak directly to her so he moved away to stand by his brother. She took the hint and wondered to the front of the car, leaning a hip against the fender. Besides she wasn't quite ready to think about what had just happened. Her eyes knew what she had seen, but her brain was still trying to catch up. She could hear the brothers murmuring behind her, but once again her gaze was riveted on the old tire swing and the creepiness that it invoked. She blinked, finally realizing why it seemed so wrong.

“Uh, guys.”

They didn't respond immediately, too caught up in their own plotting. She shot an irritated look at Dean's back as he bent over to speak with his brother, momentarily distracted by the way his jeans molded to his very firm backside.

“Dean,” she barked, finally getting his annoyed attention.

“What?” he snapped.

She wasn't sure what she had done to piss him off while bandaging his wrist, but she wasn't a total dumbass. She knew something was bothering him, but really, did he have to be such a dick about it?

“The swing.” She pointed to it, like its very presence should explain her cryptic words. He cocked an eyebrow, his lips pursed into his familiar, and? expression.

“I don't feel a breeze. Do you?”

Dean's eyes flickered back to the swing, staring at it while it creaked back and forth.

“Of course. That would be the perfect place to bury a child,” Sam commented, almost sadly.

Dean didn't say a word. Personally he rather salt and burn the kid's father for what he had done. Who killed their own child? It just reiterated what he already knew. People were fucked up.

He went back to the trunk, digging out a shovel, damn his wrist was going to sore by the end of this, some kerosene and salt. He then picked up his shotgun from the roof of his car. Being that Sam was out of commission, he had no one to watch his back and he was pretty damn sure that Little Girl Lost wasn't going to stand by and let him dig up her bones without a fight.

He had dug graves on his own before, though he rather not if he didn't have too, coupled with that thought was the surety that he wasn't ready to let Delilah out of his sight just yet. Sammy, he knew could take care of himself, even injured, but the Doc, well---doctors were about preserving life and all that shit. So it wasn't without a little bit of irony that he held out his gun at her, his eyes glinting.

“So, do you know how to use a gun?” He was already fairly certain of her answer, but it never hurt to ask.

She looked at him, then to the gun, then back to him again.

“My family is from the upper echelons of society. We summer in the Hamptons and own property all over Manhattan.

Her tone couldn't possibly get anymore snotty, and Dean envisioned that the stick up her ass was actually a solid gold bar.

“Of course I know how to use a gun. You don't think skeet shoots itself do you?” She rolled her eyes, grabbing the sawed off from him.

He blinked, and he heard Sammy's pained laughter, as he tried to hold his cracked ribs together.

“Great. Let's go dig up a body.”

“Yah, because I've waited my whole life for a man to say those exact words to me.”

“You know what they say, Delilah,” Sam cheesed at her from the backseat of the Impala.

“What's that?”

“A good friend will help you move---“

Dean snickered from behind her, already knowing where this was going.

“But a great friend will help you move a body.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing good-naturedly.

“Where do you two get this stuff?”

“Bumper stickers.” They chimed simultaneously, laughing along with her.