Don't Cry for Me ~ 2/3
Go back to Part One
Chapter Two
"Dean!" Sam lowered Dean to the pillows when he went slack in his grip. What the hell was going on? Waking to his brother's stifled call, finding him not on the bed where he was supposed to be, but rocking on his knees on the bloody bathroom floor was freaking him out.
Jo kneeled on the other side of the bed. She brought extra towels and the first aid kit. "What has he done to himself now?" Her tone was curt, but she looked worried.
"I don’t know." The blood on Dean's head, chest and towel tangled around his hips seemed to be coming from a gash in his hand. It didn't look that deep. He grabbed one of the towels and lifted Dean's hand to apply pressure to the wound. Even though he was unconscious, Dean's features were tight with pain.
Jo dug out antiseptic cream and bandages from the kit. "Think it needs stitches?"
Sam lifted the towel to look. "No. It's not that deep. The small butterfly bandages should be enough." What was going on? Dean could still be suffering from his earlier smack on the head from the ghost, went to shower and blacked out, slicing his hand as he fell, but Sam didn't think so. Not with Dean asking over and over to make it stop. Make what stop?
Sam had the niggling feeling that this was connected to the ghost. The spirit had done something to his brother, or-Sam frowned-was still doing something.
He held Dean's hand steady while Jo cleaned off the blood. "Don't worry, Dean. I'll figure this out."
Jo glanced up at him, lips pressed tight, and nodded.
~~~
As soon as they had Dean patched up and the blood cleaned away, Jo went into the bathroom while Sam pulled the bloody towel away and wrestled sweat pants onto his brother.
Jo stared at the bloody handprint on the floor a moment before soaking a washcloth and wiping it away. She'd have to call room service to bring up more linens.
She looked around, trying to figure out what Dean sliced open his hand on, and was surprised to see the open pocketknife at the side of the toilet. That didn't make any sense. Picking it up, she noted the blood on the knife's edge and wiped it off with the washcloth. Dean had just gotten out of the shower, was in nothing but a towel…so why would he have taken his knife out? And how did he slice himself?
Dean could be a childish jerk, but he wasn't careless around weapons, even small ones like this.
Sam was right. Something weird was definitely going on.
She reentered the room and found Dean cocooned beneath the blankets and Sam sitting beside him, back against the headboard, and scowling at his laptop.
"He cut himself on this." Jo held up the pocketknife.
Sam's brows angled together, making him look young.
"Find anything?" She closed the blade and set the pocketknife on the nightstand.
Sam shook his head and glanced sideways at her. "What do you think it is?"
"Best guess, that ghost is somehow still attached to him. She may have gotten to him in the bathroom. That's why he pulled the knife."
Sam's face paled. He looked down at Dean. "If she can get to him here… We've got to salt the room."
Jo nodded. "I have a little. More in the car."
"We've got a can in the trunk." Sam set the computer aside and got up, grabbing his sneakers off the floor. "You'll watch him?" He jammed one shoe on.
"You know I will."
"Yeah," he smiled, embarrassed. "Be right back." He zipped out the door.
Jo took his place on the bed beside Dean and lifted the laptop, seeing a listing of suspicious deaths filed. She lifted a brow. Sam had obviously hacked into the local police case files. She scrolled through a few of them, looking for something to stand out. The files online only went back to the sixties. If Dean's guess about the crying woman's clothing was right, they'd have to go to the library or county records to dig through the older files and newspapers.
A knock at the door startled her. In Sam's haste he hadn't taken a keycard. The noise roused Dean and his features screwed up tight. She hated that look on his handsome face.
Setting the computer aside, she hurried to let Sam in.
"He wake up?'
"Just stirred a little. You got it?"
"Yeah." Sam handed a rusty can to Jo as he passed to get to his brother and placed a palm on Dean's forehead.
"There's no fever," she informed him.
"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. Jo sympathized. It'd almost be better if Dean was sick, even delirious. They could deal with that better than… whatever this was. If they couldn't figure out what this ghost was doing…who knew what she wanted or for how long this would go on? Or what might happen if it stopped.
"Mmmm." Deans eyelids fluttered. Jo moved up behind Sam. Dark lashes lifted to reveal mossy green eyes. God, Dean had the most beautiful eyes. They lifted to his brother. "Sam?"
Sam knelt down to get closer. "I'm here. You okay?"
Dean's features scrunched together. "Head hurts. Lady is loud."
"Lady? Is that what you hear?"
"She's crying and screaming." Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Jo leaned over Sam's shoulder. So it was the ghost, had to be. "Do you hear her right now?"
Dean shook his head on the pillows and opened his eyes again. He smiled sloppily. "Hey, Jo."
Warmth blossomed in her chest, pleased he was glad to see her, though he still looked completely out of it.
"Do you hear her now, Dean?" Sam repeated her question.
Dean broke the connection of their gaze and Jo felt suddenly bereft. "No. Not right now." He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. "But man, she was screaming so hard I thought my head was gonna implode. Ghost has a wicked set of lungs on her."
Sam smiled.
"We thinkin some kind of vengeful ghost still?" Dean's eyelids lifted a little, still not completely open.
Sam stood, paced across the room. "Best guess, she's what killed those vics, attached to them somehow, made them crazy-I don't know-they went to that house, probably heard the weeping just like you and now they're dead. Suicides."
Sam stopped pacing, looked at his older sibling.
"The salt will keep any spirits out." Jo knew Sam was worried. "We're not going to find any answers on the computer."
The young hunter's frown deepened. "I know." He didn't move.
Jo sighed. "Take a quick shower, I'll order up some breakfast. By then county records in this town should be opened."
One side of Dean's lip curled in amusement. "I'll come with."
"No," both Sam and Jo said.
"What?" Dean pulled up to rest on his elbows. "I'm not going to stay here."
"Yes, you are." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Until we know who this spirit is and what she wants, you're on lockdown."
"That's stupid."
"Look. She's attached to you somehow, already got into your head, so you're not leaving."
Dean rolled his eyes. "So what? I'm supposed to let you go off and face down the crazy crying ghostie without back up? No way."
"I'm just going to county records." Sam lifted his hands in exasperation.
Jo looked back and forth between them.
Dean's Adam's apple bobbed. "Fine." He jabbed a finger in the air toward Sam. "But that's it. You bring back what you find and we'll go from there."
"That was the plan." Sam grabbed up his pack and headed toward the bathroom, muttering, "Jeez, dude. Wanna hold my hand next time I have to cross the street too?"
"I heard that." Dean tossed a pillow, missing the closing bathroom door.
~~~
Keeping the volume low, Jo flipped through the television channels, every now and then pausing at a station that caught her interest. Her focus kept straying to Dean, slumbering fitfully in her bed.
He'd been out for hours since they'd eaten breakfast and she'd tossed her keys to Sam. His eyes practically strained out of his sockets at the thought of taking off in her pretty little rented Porsche. She wasn't actually sure she would have been able to get him to leave his brother otherwise. The Winchester's had some serious trust issues when it came to relying on others.
She glanced back over at Dean to find him gazing blearily at her.
"Oh, hey. You're up."
He didn't say anything, just stared at her through red-rimmed eyes.
She vacated the chair to get him a glass of water and brought it over to him, his gaze tracking her the entire time.
"Dean?"
Something wasn't right. There was always some form of emotion whenever he looked at her-usually annoyance, sometimes on the verge of something else she couldn't quite decipher-but he'd never before watched her with this…void.
It was eerie. She wanted to snap him out of it. "Hey." She jostled his shoulder.
He sprang.
Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, rolling her backwards as they both tumbled to the floor. Water spilled over them. The glass in her hand broke as it slammed against the wall. He pinned her to the carpet, his eyes no longer vacant, but wild and disoriented.
A jingle for toothpaste sang from the television beneath their heavy exhalations.
"Dean!" Jo shoved up against his hands trapping her wrists. Her pulse thrummed hard through her veins. "Dean, snap out of it!"
His eyes flicked up to a spot on the floor just over her head. Jo wrenched her neck to see what had captured his attention. The jagged bottom of the broken glass. It looked like a small crystal crown of razor points.
In one fluid move, Dean let go of her, grabbed the glass and plunged it toward his heart.
"No!" With a speed born of fear, Jo shoved his arm forward on its path, making him miss his bare chest. The glass blazed across his shoulder and flew out of his hand.
As though it was the most important thing in the world, Dean twisted after it, scrabbling on all fours across the carpet.
Heart roaring, Jo leaped onto his back. He was scaring the crap out of her, so intent on harming himself. There's no way she was letting him get that broken piece of glass. "Dean! No! Stop it! Dean!"
He rolled her beneath him, but she wiggled out, grabbing his legs as he went for the broken glass again. He slapped out, attempting to peel her off, but she held firm, lunging up from her knees to stop him. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs. Jo's head thumped on the carpet. No more games. She threw a fist toward his jaw, wincing as his head rocked back and threw a leg over his hips, shoving him over.
Straddling his waist, Jo blocked his flailing arms. God he was strong, but sloppy, uncoordinated in whatever daze had a hold of him. She slapped him, hoping to knock him back to his senses. "Dean!"
Fingers gouged into her arms, plunged into her hair. She could hear it ripping from her scalp.
Ow ow ow ow! Her neck was being pulled sideways. "Dean!" She really didn't want to do this, but he was leaving her no choice. Grabbing his head at the temples, she lifted and then slammed his head on the floor. Once. Twice. His beautiful eyes rolled back into his head and his hands dropped, pulling her down as fingers dragged in her hair.
"Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry." She smoothed a palm down his still cheek, almost expected the heat of fever, though he was merely sweaty and warm from exertion. Blood smeared across his shoulder and arm from where the jagged glass had scraped across him.
Jo glanced at the broken glass, rocking on the floor a foot away and a knot pulled tight in her belly. She shied away from the image of Dean trying to plunge that into his heart. She pushed sweaty hair back from his smooth forehead. What was going on?
~~~
Sam stepped out of the hotel elevator with bags from the deli down the road from county records when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Shuffling the bags into one hand, he pulled his phone out and read the display.
Dean.
He grinned, relieved that his brother must be awake and okay and probably bored from being cooped up inside. Sam placed the cell to his ear. "Dean."
"You need to get back here." Jo was on Dean's phone, worry coating her tone.
"I'm just down the hall." Sam shoved the phone back into his pocket and took off running. The door yanked inward as he got there with Jo standing inside, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with a cyclone. Her clothes were askew and her hair fluffed out.
"What happened?" he asked, rushing past the girl to see what was going on with his brother.
Dean lay unconscious on the floor, hands tied together and to one leg of the overstuffed chair with strips of a torn towel. Another downy strip kept his ankles together. Watery blood dribbled from his shoulder where a jagged line ran across it. Next to Dean sat his cell phone and the ice bucket with a pink-tinged towel draped across it. Jo had obviously stopped washing the blood from the wound when she went to open the door.
Sam dropped the sandwich bags on the bed and lowered to his brother's side, inspecting the wound, and asked again, "What happened?"
"The salt isn't keeping whatever has a hold of him out of the room. He woke up, or at least I think he did. He wasn't himself, Sam. He tried to jam that glass-" Jo pointed to a sharp-pointed bottom half of a glass on top of the tall TV cabinet. "-into his chest."
Sam flinched.
Jo paced back and forth between the side of the bed and the chair, shoving her tousled hair back from her face in agitation. "He wouldn't stop. I had to knock him out. Had to tie him up. I couldn't lift him onto the bed." She glanced down at Dean, her throat working.
Sam got up, walked around his brother and grabbed Jo by the arms to stop her pacing.
She hissed sharply.
Brows rising, Sam lifted the short sleeves of Jo's shirt up a bit where the early stages of dark bruises the shape of oval fingers were forming.
"Jo." Sam felt ill and knew Dean would feel worse about it when he came back to his senses. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
She brushed her sleeve down and his hand away, features pinching with annoyance. "No. I've been banged up worse than this. What are we going to do about Dean?"
"Get him on the bed for one thing."
"No kidding, professor."
Sam lifted a brow, unaccustomed to Jo like this. Apparently she and Dean had more in common than they thought. They both covered worry with snapping sarcasm.
"What'd you find out?" Her fists rode up her hips to her waist where they planted themselves in a challenging pose relaying you-better-have-found-out-how-to-fix-him.
"Not much. Help me get him on the bed." Sam untied the strips from the chair leg. "There were only three suicides within the late 1800s, early 1900s-that there were records of. A dozen deaths that looked suspicious." He had notes on a folded paper in his back pocket to go over again.
Sam lifted Dean from beneath his shoulders while Jo took his legs and they lifted him to the bed. Sam checked Dean's bindings, making sure there was enough circulation. He hated this. He didn't want to have to secure his brother to the bed, but… Sam's gaze strayed over the cuts on Dean's shoulder. If he had plunged that glass into his heart… He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth.
"Sam?"
Dean's eyelids fluttered.
Sam sat on the bed, hip next to Dean's. "Hey. You with us?"
Dark lashes lifted, revealing glassy green orbs. His brows creased as his hands tried to pull apart. "Loud. Make her stop." His gaze slid to Sam like a plea.
"You hear her now?"
Dean brought his bound hands up to cover his face.
Sam pulled them back down. "Dean, talk to me. What's happening?"
Dean's head rolled on the pillow. He tried wrenching his hands apart, angled his fingers toward his temples.
Sam covered his ears for him, pressing his head tight between his palms and leaned close over his brother. "Is she here now?" He glanced back at Jo standing at the end of the bed.
Dean's back arched, tremors rode through him. "She's screaming. She's so loud. The water's bloody. Guh, shut up!"
"Water? Dean?"
"Shut up! Shut up! Just stop, quit washing-"
Sam pressed Dean's head tighter, hoping the pressure helped. "Just hang on, man. Ride it through."
Dean sagged back, mouth open in harsh breathing, skin flushed and sweaty.
Sam's heartbeat thundered in his head, sifting through what had just happened. Unknowingly, Dean had just given him their best clue.
~~~
"I think I know what this is." Swiveling off the bed, Sam grabbed the laptop off the desk and sank into the chair, his leg bouncing while he waited for the computer to power on.
"What is it?" Jo sank onto the arm of the chair, leaning close to see into the screen.
Sam typed bean nighe into the search bar.
"A banshee?" Jo questioned. "How do you figure?"
"Dean said she was washing."
Frowning, Jo shook her head.
"Look. Banshees are sometimes called washers at the ford. They hang around deserted streams and wash blood from the clothes of those who are about to die."
Jo's hand curled onto Sam's bicep. "Is Dean?"
Sam jolted. "No," he snapped a little too brittle. "No. I don't think she's foretelling it. I think she's causing it."
The webpage loaded to an artist's rendition of an old woman in a wispy green gown and long grey hair with a veil covering her hollowed out features. Sam scrolled down to the article.
"There's butt-loads of legends about them from all over the world. Bean sidhe, bean nighe, siths. They show up as beautiful young woman or sometimes old hags, sometimes naked carrying a bowl of blood. Could be a fairy, could be a ghost."
"Then how do we narrow it down?" Exasperation coated Jo's voice.
"Dean already did." Sam brought up a link that showed a drawing depicting a woman bent over a blood-stained cloak of a Scotman's plaid. Her shoulders were curled inward in sorrow. Long silver hair flowed over the scrubbing board and into the flowing stream. "We're dealing with a spirit. A very powerful, very insane spirit."
"You know this how?"
Sam tapped the screen and Jo read, "…spirits of women who either died giving birth or were murdered."
"Or whose murder was made to look like a suicide," Sam interrupted.
Jo met his gaze before continuing reading. "These poor souls are doomed to wash the blood of the dying…" She stopped, sat back. "You think this is the ghost of some woman who was murdered?"
"Yep. Her death was probably made to look like a suicide."
"That's good. Sam, that's the best news ever. Spirits are easy to get rid of."
Sam glanced up at her. "Not after they've morphed into a banshee. Even if we could pinpoint who the woman was and what's keeping her spirit earthbound, a woman who has become a banshee is a whole other entity. I'm not sure they have any humanity left or remember who they once were, so taking care of any remains won't really stop her."
"But she's attached to Dean?" Jo flung off the chair arm and went to the bed, taking a defensive position near the unconscious hunter. "How do we get rid of her before she makes Dean--?" Her skin paled.
Shaking his head, Sam clicked on another link, hoping to find answers. "I have no idea."
~~~
"…can't go alone."
"No choice."
Quiet voices rolled across Dean, a welcome difference to the woman who'd been screaming in his head for hours. He blinked his eyes open to the dim interior. The only source of light came from the lamp on the other side of the room. Groggy, he turned toward the hushed sounds.
Sam and Jo stood near the door, talking in hushed whispers. Sam's fingers curled loosely around the strap of the equipment pack on his shoulder. He looked like he was about to walk out the door-without him.
Dean rasped out his brother's name like broken glass grating across asphalt. He shifted to get up and found his arms immobile, stretched above his head. The hell? Tugging proved his arms were bound tight with ripped-up terry-cloth no less. Which didn't make sense. Jo and his brother were right there. Why would he be tied up? Demon possession?
"Sam," he said again, going for more volume this time, yet his voice still came out rougher than a toad's croak.
Jo's and Sam's faces both turned toward him.
Sam was at his side in seconds. "Hey. You with me this time?"
"Yeah." Dean pulled against the bindings and pain fluttered up through his shoulder. That was new. Glancing down he saw the bandage taped to his skin. "Wanna step off the kink train and untie me?"
"Dean," Sam huffed, but didn't make a move to loosen the towel strips at his wrists.
Dean noted the stiffness to Sam's shoulders, the tightness to his mouth. "What's going on?"
Jo stood behind Sam. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice."
"What? No. I wouldn't do that."
"I know." Sam ran a hand back through his hair. "Of course we know that. It wasn't you, but…" Kid's eyes were flitting around, landing everywhere but on Dean. He shook his head. "I'm going to fix it, okay. We know what it is now, and…you're gonna be okay. You're not hearing the keening right now, are you?"
"Keening?" What the hell kind of word was keening? Oh, God. He should have known. "Banshee?"
Sam finally met his gaze. Crap. So not good.
"Please tell me that brainiac head of yours figured out how to stop it."
"I…I'm going to take care of it." Which was code for I'm winging it, man.
"Sam, no." Dean pulled at his bindings, twisting on the bed. His younger brother was going out there to face a banshee alone just hoping that something he tried worked. "Untie me and we'll do this together."
"Uh--give you a weapon so she can make you turn it on yourself? Not happening." Sam lunged away from the mattress and as fluidly Jo took his place, watching the exchange with a distraught expression.
"Then take Jo with." Desperation coated Dean's tone. He did not have a good feeling about this. "Sam, do not go alone!"
Sam opened the door, pausing to glance back over his shoulder. "I'll be okay." And walked out the door.
~~~
"Jo, untie me. You untie me right now."
"You know I can't do that."
"Please. Sam's going to get himself killed."
"I-" He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry. Dammit, Sam really didn't have much of a plan and she knew it. She'd probably never have let Sam go off on his own either if whatever had happened to him hadn't freaked them both out so much.
"Jo, I'm in my right head now. No crazy screaming banshees. You need to let me go so I can help my brother."
Her palm slid over his wrists, lingered. Dean stilled, waiting for her to release him. She shook her head. "I want to, believe me."
Dean raised his head up. "He needs me."
"He needs you to stay alive," she snapped. "Dean, you tried to stab a broken glass into your heart."
Dean quieted, searching her features for the exaggeration, even knowing Jo never embellished for flights of fancy. It had to have been bad for her usually cool demeanor to have cracked. And another thing: if he had tried to stab himself, was intent on it, he would have succeeded.
He studied the girl sitting at the side of the bed anew, noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. A dark worm of doubt slithered around in his belly. "Did I hurt you?"
She looked away. Answer enough.
Dean's mind whirled through a thousand scenarios, none of them good. He hated the thought of being so out of his head that he didn't know what he was doing-couldn't remember doing it or controlling it-damn supernatural beings were bad enough when they weren't jacking with your brain. Vulcan mind-melding was crossing the line.
He wasn't anywhere cool that the banshee was out to make him hurt himself, but he figured he had enough mind over matter self-control, now that he knew what was going on, if he felt that overpowering desolation start to hit, he could stop, handcuff himself or something until it passed-and still be able to provide back-up for Sam, but… his gaze raked down Jo's slim form, the hunched over shoulders like she was trying to pull into herself. He couldn't take the chance on hurting her.
Which he suspected had already happened…or close to it. Except for being out of sorts, she didn't appear to have any injuries, but if she and Sam felt the need to tie him down… Dean's throat worked, trying to swallow past the dryness of his mouth.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Jo's eyes ticked down to his.
"Keep the ropes on." He twisted his wrists around the terry-cloth. "Or whatever. I'll remain tied." Like he had any choice in the matter. Well, okay he did provided she took her eyes off him long enough for him to work on the strips binding his wrists together. Wouldn't be the first time.
"But you go." He couldn't believe he was asking her that when he wanted her as far from this case as possible.
Jo shook her head.
"Jo, I'll be okay here. I will. But Sam's out there alone."
"I know." Her palm struck the mattress, obviously as frustrated as he was with the situation. "Sam was adamant that someone stay with you."
"I'll bet he was."
Jo smiled weakly, trying to be brave for him. "Do you want some water?"
He wasn't swaying her. "I want my brother safe."
"You think I don't?" She swung off the bed so quickly her hair flew around her shoulders. "But right now you're in more danger than he is."
"I'm n-"
"You are!" Her shoulders lifted with a huge shuddering breath.
"What happens when that she-witch screams at Sam? That's all it takes, Jo, one top-of-her-lungs scream and the kid's banshee goo. I can't believe he went off without me. And you let him."
"Let him? I'm not the one who let the banshee get the drop on me in the first place. I can't believe you're turning all this into my fault now. Jo turned away, her spine ramrod straight as she marched to the sink to get some water. Her eyes blazed as she came back and sat on the bed with the water.
Dean lifted his head to drink, noting she brought one of the paper coffee cups instead of one of the short cups made of glass.
She put the cup to his lips and tilted it for him.
He shifted his head when he finished and stared up at her. "I don't blame you."
Her gaze sought his, remained as though searching for the truth. She still held the cup at an angle. Water dropped onto Dean's bare chest, trickling down toward his navel.
Jo glanced away, her gaze flitting about the room until she came back to him. Her cool palm slipped onto his cheek. Jo's eyes had darkened, her lips parted on a soft gasp and Dean's blood warmed, streaming like fire through his veins as the girl lowered to him, wisp-light lips tracing over his forehead, his nose, his mouth.
The rest of the water spilled over him and Dean growled low in his throat at the coolness splashing his heated chest.
Jo pulled back. "I've wanted to do that forever."
"Get back here." Dean strained his head upward, his wrists pulling against the damn terry-cloth.
Grinning wickedly, Jo plunged downward, her mouth impatient this time, devouring his.
He kissed back, matching her intensity, wanting this, wanting her. Her hands slid along his torso, feeling the bumps of his ribcage, driving him crazy. He yanked against his bonds, desperate to pull her closer, feel the silk of her skin. She moved to the dip between his neck and jaw, hot mouth and cool breath streaming over him.
Letting his head fall back to the pillow, Dean gave into her exploration until her hand moved over the bandage taped over his collarbone, stilled.
She drew herself up, staring at the gauze, at the seeping blood. Her hair fell to each side of her puzzled face like curtains.
"I…" She pushed up farther, scooting back, her hip toward his knee. Her eyes snapped up toward his wrists and her face reddened. "I shouldn't have done that."
"Not complaining here."
The hard line of her lips softened and a new stream of warmth poured through Dean at what those lips had been doing to him.
"It's just not the right time." She had him there. "Our emotions are too keyed up with everything."
True. Dean frowned, wondering how much was just being keyed up on her part.
He was about to say something flippant when she smiled. "Try again when Sam gets back?" Her face reddened even more. "I mean, not while Sam's here, but, you know, after we know he's safe…and you're safe…and it's over and…" She groaned and spun off the bed, stomping to the other side of the room where she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. For a moment Dean thought she might actually start banging her head against the wall.
He started laughing, the lightness of it easing the tightness of his chest. She looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Absolutely." He knew the grin he gave her was nothing short of cocky. "I'll even buy you dinner first."
She rolled her eyes. "Jerk."
And an image of Sam out there in the dark on his own instantly filled Dean's mind. What the hell was he thinking?
~~~
Sam didn't have many options. As far as research went, there wasn't any way to kill a banshee. They were permanent parts of the supernatural world that you just hoped you didn't come across-and prayed even harder that you didn't hear her cry.
Parked in front of the large vacant house, Sam opened the trunk. A light rain splattered droplets across the back of Sam's T-shirt. Man, had they gotten it wrong. Not a regular ghost at all, but a banshee.
The dark house loomed against the night sky in shadow. Sam pulled out the coffee tin they kept religious relics in, sifting through a few saint medals, an ankh, and a star of David for the little Celtic cross. It was a long shot, but one site mentioned that placing the cross over thresholds or beneath pillows could hold off the banshee's curse for a while. He wished he'd left one with Dean.
He hooked the little cross around a long dog-tag chain and dropped it around his neck. Couldn't hurt. He paused to peer into the gloom. The sensation of being watched prickled across the back of his neck. Good. He wanted-needed-the banshee to be around.
He also needed to get close enough without getting caught in her curse.
Sam ran his teeth across his bottom lip and rummaged through the trunk for the old ear plugs they hadn't used in years that Dean had pilfered from a target range. He frowned at the set of earplugs, thinking hard. He couldn't be sure the plugs could protect against a banshee's wail. They didn't totally block out gunshots either, just muffled them. He also pulled out the headset-looking ear mufflers they'd picked up working an airport gig. Guys working near running jet engines wore them and Dean had thought they were cool.
Using either or both of these together was a risk. They just didn't cut out everything and who knew what frequency wavelength a banshee registered. It was better than nothing though. He just wished he had a jet engine running nearby. You couldn't hear anything over that noise.
Wait. His hands froze on the open lid of false trunk. Of course. That's it. A laugh pooled inside his chest. He tossed the earplugs back into the box, keeping the mufflers and ran around to the side of the Impala, leaning in the window to get at the glove compartment.
Please be charged up.
Grabbing his little used iPod, he powered it on. Yes! He scrolled through his albums until he found the list he'd secretly made for Dean in the event the ancient cassette deck bit the dust. Heaven help them both then if his brother didn't have his tunes.
He placed the earbuds in his ears then settled the mufflers over the top of those and scrolled the volume up to the highest level he could stand without exploding his eardrums.
With George Thorogood rasping about the day he was born, Sam walked around the side of the large house toward the shadowy line of trees.
Part Three http://cece-away.livejournal.com/34281.html
Chapter Two
"Dean!" Sam lowered Dean to the pillows when he went slack in his grip. What the hell was going on? Waking to his brother's stifled call, finding him not on the bed where he was supposed to be, but rocking on his knees on the bloody bathroom floor was freaking him out.
Jo kneeled on the other side of the bed. She brought extra towels and the first aid kit. "What has he done to himself now?" Her tone was curt, but she looked worried.
"I don’t know." The blood on Dean's head, chest and towel tangled around his hips seemed to be coming from a gash in his hand. It didn't look that deep. He grabbed one of the towels and lifted Dean's hand to apply pressure to the wound. Even though he was unconscious, Dean's features were tight with pain.
Jo dug out antiseptic cream and bandages from the kit. "Think it needs stitches?"
Sam lifted the towel to look. "No. It's not that deep. The small butterfly bandages should be enough." What was going on? Dean could still be suffering from his earlier smack on the head from the ghost, went to shower and blacked out, slicing his hand as he fell, but Sam didn't think so. Not with Dean asking over and over to make it stop. Make what stop?
Sam had the niggling feeling that this was connected to the ghost. The spirit had done something to his brother, or-Sam frowned-was still doing something.
He held Dean's hand steady while Jo cleaned off the blood. "Don't worry, Dean. I'll figure this out."
Jo glanced up at him, lips pressed tight, and nodded.
~~~
As soon as they had Dean patched up and the blood cleaned away, Jo went into the bathroom while Sam pulled the bloody towel away and wrestled sweat pants onto his brother.
Jo stared at the bloody handprint on the floor a moment before soaking a washcloth and wiping it away. She'd have to call room service to bring up more linens.
She looked around, trying to figure out what Dean sliced open his hand on, and was surprised to see the open pocketknife at the side of the toilet. That didn't make any sense. Picking it up, she noted the blood on the knife's edge and wiped it off with the washcloth. Dean had just gotten out of the shower, was in nothing but a towel…so why would he have taken his knife out? And how did he slice himself?
Dean could be a childish jerk, but he wasn't careless around weapons, even small ones like this.
Sam was right. Something weird was definitely going on.
She reentered the room and found Dean cocooned beneath the blankets and Sam sitting beside him, back against the headboard, and scowling at his laptop.
"He cut himself on this." Jo held up the pocketknife.
Sam's brows angled together, making him look young.
"Find anything?" She closed the blade and set the pocketknife on the nightstand.
Sam shook his head and glanced sideways at her. "What do you think it is?"
"Best guess, that ghost is somehow still attached to him. She may have gotten to him in the bathroom. That's why he pulled the knife."
Sam's face paled. He looked down at Dean. "If she can get to him here… We've got to salt the room."
Jo nodded. "I have a little. More in the car."
"We've got a can in the trunk." Sam set the computer aside and got up, grabbing his sneakers off the floor. "You'll watch him?" He jammed one shoe on.
"You know I will."
"Yeah," he smiled, embarrassed. "Be right back." He zipped out the door.
Jo took his place on the bed beside Dean and lifted the laptop, seeing a listing of suspicious deaths filed. She lifted a brow. Sam had obviously hacked into the local police case files. She scrolled through a few of them, looking for something to stand out. The files online only went back to the sixties. If Dean's guess about the crying woman's clothing was right, they'd have to go to the library or county records to dig through the older files and newspapers.
A knock at the door startled her. In Sam's haste he hadn't taken a keycard. The noise roused Dean and his features screwed up tight. She hated that look on his handsome face.
Setting the computer aside, she hurried to let Sam in.
"He wake up?'
"Just stirred a little. You got it?"
"Yeah." Sam handed a rusty can to Jo as he passed to get to his brother and placed a palm on Dean's forehead.
"There's no fever," she informed him.
"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. Jo sympathized. It'd almost be better if Dean was sick, even delirious. They could deal with that better than… whatever this was. If they couldn't figure out what this ghost was doing…who knew what she wanted or for how long this would go on? Or what might happen if it stopped.
"Mmmm." Deans eyelids fluttered. Jo moved up behind Sam. Dark lashes lifted to reveal mossy green eyes. God, Dean had the most beautiful eyes. They lifted to his brother. "Sam?"
Sam knelt down to get closer. "I'm here. You okay?"
Dean's features scrunched together. "Head hurts. Lady is loud."
"Lady? Is that what you hear?"
"She's crying and screaming." Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Jo leaned over Sam's shoulder. So it was the ghost, had to be. "Do you hear her right now?"
Dean shook his head on the pillows and opened his eyes again. He smiled sloppily. "Hey, Jo."
Warmth blossomed in her chest, pleased he was glad to see her, though he still looked completely out of it.
"Do you hear her now, Dean?" Sam repeated her question.
Dean broke the connection of their gaze and Jo felt suddenly bereft. "No. Not right now." He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. "But man, she was screaming so hard I thought my head was gonna implode. Ghost has a wicked set of lungs on her."
Sam smiled.
"We thinkin some kind of vengeful ghost still?" Dean's eyelids lifted a little, still not completely open.
Sam stood, paced across the room. "Best guess, she's what killed those vics, attached to them somehow, made them crazy-I don't know-they went to that house, probably heard the weeping just like you and now they're dead. Suicides."
Sam stopped pacing, looked at his older sibling.
"The salt will keep any spirits out." Jo knew Sam was worried. "We're not going to find any answers on the computer."
The young hunter's frown deepened. "I know." He didn't move.
Jo sighed. "Take a quick shower, I'll order up some breakfast. By then county records in this town should be opened."
One side of Dean's lip curled in amusement. "I'll come with."
"No," both Sam and Jo said.
"What?" Dean pulled up to rest on his elbows. "I'm not going to stay here."
"Yes, you are." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Until we know who this spirit is and what she wants, you're on lockdown."
"That's stupid."
"Look. She's attached to you somehow, already got into your head, so you're not leaving."
Dean rolled his eyes. "So what? I'm supposed to let you go off and face down the crazy crying ghostie without back up? No way."
"I'm just going to county records." Sam lifted his hands in exasperation.
Jo looked back and forth between them.
Dean's Adam's apple bobbed. "Fine." He jabbed a finger in the air toward Sam. "But that's it. You bring back what you find and we'll go from there."
"That was the plan." Sam grabbed up his pack and headed toward the bathroom, muttering, "Jeez, dude. Wanna hold my hand next time I have to cross the street too?"
"I heard that." Dean tossed a pillow, missing the closing bathroom door.
~~~
Keeping the volume low, Jo flipped through the television channels, every now and then pausing at a station that caught her interest. Her focus kept straying to Dean, slumbering fitfully in her bed.
He'd been out for hours since they'd eaten breakfast and she'd tossed her keys to Sam. His eyes practically strained out of his sockets at the thought of taking off in her pretty little rented Porsche. She wasn't actually sure she would have been able to get him to leave his brother otherwise. The Winchester's had some serious trust issues when it came to relying on others.
She glanced back over at Dean to find him gazing blearily at her.
"Oh, hey. You're up."
He didn't say anything, just stared at her through red-rimmed eyes.
She vacated the chair to get him a glass of water and brought it over to him, his gaze tracking her the entire time.
"Dean?"
Something wasn't right. There was always some form of emotion whenever he looked at her-usually annoyance, sometimes on the verge of something else she couldn't quite decipher-but he'd never before watched her with this…void.
It was eerie. She wanted to snap him out of it. "Hey." She jostled his shoulder.
He sprang.
Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, rolling her backwards as they both tumbled to the floor. Water spilled over them. The glass in her hand broke as it slammed against the wall. He pinned her to the carpet, his eyes no longer vacant, but wild and disoriented.
A jingle for toothpaste sang from the television beneath their heavy exhalations.
"Dean!" Jo shoved up against his hands trapping her wrists. Her pulse thrummed hard through her veins. "Dean, snap out of it!"
His eyes flicked up to a spot on the floor just over her head. Jo wrenched her neck to see what had captured his attention. The jagged bottom of the broken glass. It looked like a small crystal crown of razor points.
In one fluid move, Dean let go of her, grabbed the glass and plunged it toward his heart.
"No!" With a speed born of fear, Jo shoved his arm forward on its path, making him miss his bare chest. The glass blazed across his shoulder and flew out of his hand.
As though it was the most important thing in the world, Dean twisted after it, scrabbling on all fours across the carpet.
Heart roaring, Jo leaped onto his back. He was scaring the crap out of her, so intent on harming himself. There's no way she was letting him get that broken piece of glass. "Dean! No! Stop it! Dean!"
He rolled her beneath him, but she wiggled out, grabbing his legs as he went for the broken glass again. He slapped out, attempting to peel her off, but she held firm, lunging up from her knees to stop him. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs. Jo's head thumped on the carpet. No more games. She threw a fist toward his jaw, wincing as his head rocked back and threw a leg over his hips, shoving him over.
Straddling his waist, Jo blocked his flailing arms. God he was strong, but sloppy, uncoordinated in whatever daze had a hold of him. She slapped him, hoping to knock him back to his senses. "Dean!"
Fingers gouged into her arms, plunged into her hair. She could hear it ripping from her scalp.
Ow ow ow ow! Her neck was being pulled sideways. "Dean!" She really didn't want to do this, but he was leaving her no choice. Grabbing his head at the temples, she lifted and then slammed his head on the floor. Once. Twice. His beautiful eyes rolled back into his head and his hands dropped, pulling her down as fingers dragged in her hair.
"Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry." She smoothed a palm down his still cheek, almost expected the heat of fever, though he was merely sweaty and warm from exertion. Blood smeared across his shoulder and arm from where the jagged glass had scraped across him.
Jo glanced at the broken glass, rocking on the floor a foot away and a knot pulled tight in her belly. She shied away from the image of Dean trying to plunge that into his heart. She pushed sweaty hair back from his smooth forehead. What was going on?
~~~
Sam stepped out of the hotel elevator with bags from the deli down the road from county records when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Shuffling the bags into one hand, he pulled his phone out and read the display.
Dean.
He grinned, relieved that his brother must be awake and okay and probably bored from being cooped up inside. Sam placed the cell to his ear. "Dean."
"You need to get back here." Jo was on Dean's phone, worry coating her tone.
"I'm just down the hall." Sam shoved the phone back into his pocket and took off running. The door yanked inward as he got there with Jo standing inside, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with a cyclone. Her clothes were askew and her hair fluffed out.
"What happened?" he asked, rushing past the girl to see what was going on with his brother.
Dean lay unconscious on the floor, hands tied together and to one leg of the overstuffed chair with strips of a torn towel. Another downy strip kept his ankles together. Watery blood dribbled from his shoulder where a jagged line ran across it. Next to Dean sat his cell phone and the ice bucket with a pink-tinged towel draped across it. Jo had obviously stopped washing the blood from the wound when she went to open the door.
Sam dropped the sandwich bags on the bed and lowered to his brother's side, inspecting the wound, and asked again, "What happened?"
"The salt isn't keeping whatever has a hold of him out of the room. He woke up, or at least I think he did. He wasn't himself, Sam. He tried to jam that glass-" Jo pointed to a sharp-pointed bottom half of a glass on top of the tall TV cabinet. "-into his chest."
Sam flinched.
Jo paced back and forth between the side of the bed and the chair, shoving her tousled hair back from her face in agitation. "He wouldn't stop. I had to knock him out. Had to tie him up. I couldn't lift him onto the bed." She glanced down at Dean, her throat working.
Sam got up, walked around his brother and grabbed Jo by the arms to stop her pacing.
She hissed sharply.
Brows rising, Sam lifted the short sleeves of Jo's shirt up a bit where the early stages of dark bruises the shape of oval fingers were forming.
"Jo." Sam felt ill and knew Dean would feel worse about it when he came back to his senses. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
She brushed her sleeve down and his hand away, features pinching with annoyance. "No. I've been banged up worse than this. What are we going to do about Dean?"
"Get him on the bed for one thing."
"No kidding, professor."
Sam lifted a brow, unaccustomed to Jo like this. Apparently she and Dean had more in common than they thought. They both covered worry with snapping sarcasm.
"What'd you find out?" Her fists rode up her hips to her waist where they planted themselves in a challenging pose relaying you-better-have-found-out-how-to-fix-him.
"Not much. Help me get him on the bed." Sam untied the strips from the chair leg. "There were only three suicides within the late 1800s, early 1900s-that there were records of. A dozen deaths that looked suspicious." He had notes on a folded paper in his back pocket to go over again.
Sam lifted Dean from beneath his shoulders while Jo took his legs and they lifted him to the bed. Sam checked Dean's bindings, making sure there was enough circulation. He hated this. He didn't want to have to secure his brother to the bed, but… Sam's gaze strayed over the cuts on Dean's shoulder. If he had plunged that glass into his heart… He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth.
"Sam?"
Dean's eyelids fluttered.
Sam sat on the bed, hip next to Dean's. "Hey. You with us?"
Dark lashes lifted, revealing glassy green orbs. His brows creased as his hands tried to pull apart. "Loud. Make her stop." His gaze slid to Sam like a plea.
"You hear her now?"
Dean brought his bound hands up to cover his face.
Sam pulled them back down. "Dean, talk to me. What's happening?"
Dean's head rolled on the pillow. He tried wrenching his hands apart, angled his fingers toward his temples.
Sam covered his ears for him, pressing his head tight between his palms and leaned close over his brother. "Is she here now?" He glanced back at Jo standing at the end of the bed.
Dean's back arched, tremors rode through him. "She's screaming. She's so loud. The water's bloody. Guh, shut up!"
"Water? Dean?"
"Shut up! Shut up! Just stop, quit washing-"
Sam pressed Dean's head tighter, hoping the pressure helped. "Just hang on, man. Ride it through."
Dean sagged back, mouth open in harsh breathing, skin flushed and sweaty.
Sam's heartbeat thundered in his head, sifting through what had just happened. Unknowingly, Dean had just given him their best clue.
~~~
"I think I know what this is." Swiveling off the bed, Sam grabbed the laptop off the desk and sank into the chair, his leg bouncing while he waited for the computer to power on.
"What is it?" Jo sank onto the arm of the chair, leaning close to see into the screen.
Sam typed bean nighe into the search bar.
"A banshee?" Jo questioned. "How do you figure?"
"Dean said she was washing."
Frowning, Jo shook her head.
"Look. Banshees are sometimes called washers at the ford. They hang around deserted streams and wash blood from the clothes of those who are about to die."
Jo's hand curled onto Sam's bicep. "Is Dean?"
Sam jolted. "No," he snapped a little too brittle. "No. I don't think she's foretelling it. I think she's causing it."
The webpage loaded to an artist's rendition of an old woman in a wispy green gown and long grey hair with a veil covering her hollowed out features. Sam scrolled down to the article.
"There's butt-loads of legends about them from all over the world. Bean sidhe, bean nighe, siths. They show up as beautiful young woman or sometimes old hags, sometimes naked carrying a bowl of blood. Could be a fairy, could be a ghost."
"Then how do we narrow it down?" Exasperation coated Jo's voice.
"Dean already did." Sam brought up a link that showed a drawing depicting a woman bent over a blood-stained cloak of a Scotman's plaid. Her shoulders were curled inward in sorrow. Long silver hair flowed over the scrubbing board and into the flowing stream. "We're dealing with a spirit. A very powerful, very insane spirit."
"You know this how?"
Sam tapped the screen and Jo read, "…spirits of women who either died giving birth or were murdered."
"Or whose murder was made to look like a suicide," Sam interrupted.
Jo met his gaze before continuing reading. "These poor souls are doomed to wash the blood of the dying…" She stopped, sat back. "You think this is the ghost of some woman who was murdered?"
"Yep. Her death was probably made to look like a suicide."
"That's good. Sam, that's the best news ever. Spirits are easy to get rid of."
Sam glanced up at her. "Not after they've morphed into a banshee. Even if we could pinpoint who the woman was and what's keeping her spirit earthbound, a woman who has become a banshee is a whole other entity. I'm not sure they have any humanity left or remember who they once were, so taking care of any remains won't really stop her."
"But she's attached to Dean?" Jo flung off the chair arm and went to the bed, taking a defensive position near the unconscious hunter. "How do we get rid of her before she makes Dean--?" Her skin paled.
Shaking his head, Sam clicked on another link, hoping to find answers. "I have no idea."
~~~
"…can't go alone."
"No choice."
Quiet voices rolled across Dean, a welcome difference to the woman who'd been screaming in his head for hours. He blinked his eyes open to the dim interior. The only source of light came from the lamp on the other side of the room. Groggy, he turned toward the hushed sounds.
Sam and Jo stood near the door, talking in hushed whispers. Sam's fingers curled loosely around the strap of the equipment pack on his shoulder. He looked like he was about to walk out the door-without him.
Dean rasped out his brother's name like broken glass grating across asphalt. He shifted to get up and found his arms immobile, stretched above his head. The hell? Tugging proved his arms were bound tight with ripped-up terry-cloth no less. Which didn't make sense. Jo and his brother were right there. Why would he be tied up? Demon possession?
"Sam," he said again, going for more volume this time, yet his voice still came out rougher than a toad's croak.
Jo's and Sam's faces both turned toward him.
Sam was at his side in seconds. "Hey. You with me this time?"
"Yeah." Dean pulled against the bindings and pain fluttered up through his shoulder. That was new. Glancing down he saw the bandage taped to his skin. "Wanna step off the kink train and untie me?"
"Dean," Sam huffed, but didn't make a move to loosen the towel strips at his wrists.
Dean noted the stiffness to Sam's shoulders, the tightness to his mouth. "What's going on?"
Jo stood behind Sam. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice."
"What? No. I wouldn't do that."
"I know." Sam ran a hand back through his hair. "Of course we know that. It wasn't you, but…" Kid's eyes were flitting around, landing everywhere but on Dean. He shook his head. "I'm going to fix it, okay. We know what it is now, and…you're gonna be okay. You're not hearing the keening right now, are you?"
"Keening?" What the hell kind of word was keening? Oh, God. He should have known. "Banshee?"
Sam finally met his gaze. Crap. So not good.
"Please tell me that brainiac head of yours figured out how to stop it."
"I…I'm going to take care of it." Which was code for I'm winging it, man.
"Sam, no." Dean pulled at his bindings, twisting on the bed. His younger brother was going out there to face a banshee alone just hoping that something he tried worked. "Untie me and we'll do this together."
"Uh--give you a weapon so she can make you turn it on yourself? Not happening." Sam lunged away from the mattress and as fluidly Jo took his place, watching the exchange with a distraught expression.
"Then take Jo with." Desperation coated Dean's tone. He did not have a good feeling about this. "Sam, do not go alone!"
Sam opened the door, pausing to glance back over his shoulder. "I'll be okay." And walked out the door.
~~~
"Jo, untie me. You untie me right now."
"You know I can't do that."
"Please. Sam's going to get himself killed."
"I-" He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry. Dammit, Sam really didn't have much of a plan and she knew it. She'd probably never have let Sam go off on his own either if whatever had happened to him hadn't freaked them both out so much.
"Jo, I'm in my right head now. No crazy screaming banshees. You need to let me go so I can help my brother."
Her palm slid over his wrists, lingered. Dean stilled, waiting for her to release him. She shook her head. "I want to, believe me."
Dean raised his head up. "He needs me."
"He needs you to stay alive," she snapped. "Dean, you tried to stab a broken glass into your heart."
Dean quieted, searching her features for the exaggeration, even knowing Jo never embellished for flights of fancy. It had to have been bad for her usually cool demeanor to have cracked. And another thing: if he had tried to stab himself, was intent on it, he would have succeeded.
He studied the girl sitting at the side of the bed anew, noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. A dark worm of doubt slithered around in his belly. "Did I hurt you?"
She looked away. Answer enough.
Dean's mind whirled through a thousand scenarios, none of them good. He hated the thought of being so out of his head that he didn't know what he was doing-couldn't remember doing it or controlling it-damn supernatural beings were bad enough when they weren't jacking with your brain. Vulcan mind-melding was crossing the line.
He wasn't anywhere cool that the banshee was out to make him hurt himself, but he figured he had enough mind over matter self-control, now that he knew what was going on, if he felt that overpowering desolation start to hit, he could stop, handcuff himself or something until it passed-and still be able to provide back-up for Sam, but… his gaze raked down Jo's slim form, the hunched over shoulders like she was trying to pull into herself. He couldn't take the chance on hurting her.
Which he suspected had already happened…or close to it. Except for being out of sorts, she didn't appear to have any injuries, but if she and Sam felt the need to tie him down… Dean's throat worked, trying to swallow past the dryness of his mouth.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Jo's eyes ticked down to his.
"Keep the ropes on." He twisted his wrists around the terry-cloth. "Or whatever. I'll remain tied." Like he had any choice in the matter. Well, okay he did provided she took her eyes off him long enough for him to work on the strips binding his wrists together. Wouldn't be the first time.
"But you go." He couldn't believe he was asking her that when he wanted her as far from this case as possible.
Jo shook her head.
"Jo, I'll be okay here. I will. But Sam's out there alone."
"I know." Her palm struck the mattress, obviously as frustrated as he was with the situation. "Sam was adamant that someone stay with you."
"I'll bet he was."
Jo smiled weakly, trying to be brave for him. "Do you want some water?"
He wasn't swaying her. "I want my brother safe."
"You think I don't?" She swung off the bed so quickly her hair flew around her shoulders. "But right now you're in more danger than he is."
"I'm n-"
"You are!" Her shoulders lifted with a huge shuddering breath.
"What happens when that she-witch screams at Sam? That's all it takes, Jo, one top-of-her-lungs scream and the kid's banshee goo. I can't believe he went off without me. And you let him."
"Let him? I'm not the one who let the banshee get the drop on me in the first place. I can't believe you're turning all this into my fault now. Jo turned away, her spine ramrod straight as she marched to the sink to get some water. Her eyes blazed as she came back and sat on the bed with the water.
Dean lifted his head to drink, noting she brought one of the paper coffee cups instead of one of the short cups made of glass.
She put the cup to his lips and tilted it for him.
He shifted his head when he finished and stared up at her. "I don't blame you."
Her gaze sought his, remained as though searching for the truth. She still held the cup at an angle. Water dropped onto Dean's bare chest, trickling down toward his navel.
Jo glanced away, her gaze flitting about the room until she came back to him. Her cool palm slipped onto his cheek. Jo's eyes had darkened, her lips parted on a soft gasp and Dean's blood warmed, streaming like fire through his veins as the girl lowered to him, wisp-light lips tracing over his forehead, his nose, his mouth.
The rest of the water spilled over him and Dean growled low in his throat at the coolness splashing his heated chest.
Jo pulled back. "I've wanted to do that forever."
"Get back here." Dean strained his head upward, his wrists pulling against the damn terry-cloth.
Grinning wickedly, Jo plunged downward, her mouth impatient this time, devouring his.
He kissed back, matching her intensity, wanting this, wanting her. Her hands slid along his torso, feeling the bumps of his ribcage, driving him crazy. He yanked against his bonds, desperate to pull her closer, feel the silk of her skin. She moved to the dip between his neck and jaw, hot mouth and cool breath streaming over him.
Letting his head fall back to the pillow, Dean gave into her exploration until her hand moved over the bandage taped over his collarbone, stilled.
She drew herself up, staring at the gauze, at the seeping blood. Her hair fell to each side of her puzzled face like curtains.
"I…" She pushed up farther, scooting back, her hip toward his knee. Her eyes snapped up toward his wrists and her face reddened. "I shouldn't have done that."
"Not complaining here."
The hard line of her lips softened and a new stream of warmth poured through Dean at what those lips had been doing to him.
"It's just not the right time." She had him there. "Our emotions are too keyed up with everything."
True. Dean frowned, wondering how much was just being keyed up on her part.
He was about to say something flippant when she smiled. "Try again when Sam gets back?" Her face reddened even more. "I mean, not while Sam's here, but, you know, after we know he's safe…and you're safe…and it's over and…" She groaned and spun off the bed, stomping to the other side of the room where she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. For a moment Dean thought she might actually start banging her head against the wall.
He started laughing, the lightness of it easing the tightness of his chest. She looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Absolutely." He knew the grin he gave her was nothing short of cocky. "I'll even buy you dinner first."
She rolled her eyes. "Jerk."
And an image of Sam out there in the dark on his own instantly filled Dean's mind. What the hell was he thinking?
~~~
Sam didn't have many options. As far as research went, there wasn't any way to kill a banshee. They were permanent parts of the supernatural world that you just hoped you didn't come across-and prayed even harder that you didn't hear her cry.
Parked in front of the large vacant house, Sam opened the trunk. A light rain splattered droplets across the back of Sam's T-shirt. Man, had they gotten it wrong. Not a regular ghost at all, but a banshee.
The dark house loomed against the night sky in shadow. Sam pulled out the coffee tin they kept religious relics in, sifting through a few saint medals, an ankh, and a star of David for the little Celtic cross. It was a long shot, but one site mentioned that placing the cross over thresholds or beneath pillows could hold off the banshee's curse for a while. He wished he'd left one with Dean.
He hooked the little cross around a long dog-tag chain and dropped it around his neck. Couldn't hurt. He paused to peer into the gloom. The sensation of being watched prickled across the back of his neck. Good. He wanted-needed-the banshee to be around.
He also needed to get close enough without getting caught in her curse.
Sam ran his teeth across his bottom lip and rummaged through the trunk for the old ear plugs they hadn't used in years that Dean had pilfered from a target range. He frowned at the set of earplugs, thinking hard. He couldn't be sure the plugs could protect against a banshee's wail. They didn't totally block out gunshots either, just muffled them. He also pulled out the headset-looking ear mufflers they'd picked up working an airport gig. Guys working near running jet engines wore them and Dean had thought they were cool.
Using either or both of these together was a risk. They just didn't cut out everything and who knew what frequency wavelength a banshee registered. It was better than nothing though. He just wished he had a jet engine running nearby. You couldn't hear anything over that noise.
Wait. His hands froze on the open lid of false trunk. Of course. That's it. A laugh pooled inside his chest. He tossed the earplugs back into the box, keeping the mufflers and ran around to the side of the Impala, leaning in the window to get at the glove compartment.
Please be charged up.
Grabbing his little used iPod, he powered it on. Yes! He scrolled through his albums until he found the list he'd secretly made for Dean in the event the ancient cassette deck bit the dust. Heaven help them both then if his brother didn't have his tunes.
He placed the earbuds in his ears then settled the mufflers over the top of those and scrolled the volume up to the highest level he could stand without exploding his eardrums.
With George Thorogood rasping about the day he was born, Sam walked around the side of the large house toward the shadowy line of trees.
Part Three http://cece-away.livejournal.com/34281.html