Don't Cry for Me ~ 3/3
Chapter Three
Jo sat on the bed next to Dean, legs stretched out along his, pillows wedged between her back and the headboard as she flipped through channels on the television, not really watching anything.
Dean had fallen asleep again. She toyed with untying his wrists while he was out to move them into another position and rub them for circulation, but she knew he'd wake up the moment she did. Couldn't risk it.
For the thousandth time, she glanced at Dean's cell phone lying silent on the bedside table and willed Sam to call with the reassuring news that the banshee was taken care of and he was okay. This waiting around was ridiculous and for a moment she got why her mom was so adamant against her hunting. Not knowing what was going on grated across her already frayed nerves. She should be out there hunting this thing, figuring out a way to get rid of it herself.
This was her first job dammit!
The Winchesters would have to shove their way into her gig and Dean would have to go and get himself attacked by a make-you-go-crazy-and-kill-yourself banshee.
Her heart squeezed. Oh Dean.
She splayed her palm over his chest to monitor his even breathing, worry gnawing at her belly. He had to beat this thing. He could beat this thing. He had the strongest will of anyone she'd ever known. Her lips curved upward. Too strong at times.
Dean Winchester was the most headstrong, stubborn, royal pain in the…and she'd kissed him. God, she couldn't help herself. Heat flushed through her veins thinking about it, about the way he kissed her back, all hunger and claiming. When she pulled away his eyes had zeroed in on her like he could clutch her back through magnetism and will alone.
And hadn't that been about right?
What was she thinking? Letting her guard down like that? She was drawn to Dean like no one else before. No one else had the power to break her heart the way Dean could either. Inevitably would if she wasn't careful.
She smoothed damp hair off his forehead. Who was she kidding? She was already fruit loops over the guy. Every time he came to the Roadhouse and then left again it hurt.
Jo edged off the bed, pulling away both physically and emotionally and ran to the bathroom where she splashed cool water over her face, fortifying her resolve. She stared at her wet face in the mirror.
She was a Hunter. A damn fine one.
She was not a silly little girl, pining for the slightest notice from one Dean Winchester-never mind how her heart sped up and heat raced across her skin every time he looked at her.
Taking a steadying breath, Jo stepped out of the bathroom and came face to face with Dean's chest. Before she could think, he shoved her back into the bathroom against the counter.
~~~
The wind picked up, tearing through the trees. Wet leaves kicked up beneath Sam's boots. The iPod switched to the next track and Sam flinched at Robert Plant's sudden wailing cry, mistaking it for the banshee.
Blowing out on a shaky exhale, Sam braced himself. His heart pounded in rhythm with the staccato riff of Zeppelin's guitars. Sweat or rain water or both pooled between his palm and the shotgun and Plant crooned about the hammer of the gods driving their ships forward from the land of ice and snow.
The rain poured harder, riding the wind on a slant, soaking Sam to the bone as he walked against the thrashing air currents. The skin prickled at his neck and he spun around, nearly slipping on the wet leaf-litter to peer into the charged darkness behind him.
It was eerie-dangerous-walking through a howling storm unable to listen to anything above the blasting music. In normal circumstances, not being able to hear movement in his surroundings could get him killed.
But this circumstance was about as far from normal as it could get.
Swinging back, Sam strode forward, determination thundering with each step, coiling his muscles when he saw the little stream, swollen with rain water and flowing more rapidly than it had before.
Fingers curling harder around the sawed-off-not that salt rounds were any good against a banshee-Sam followed the flow of water to the spot they'd found Dean lying facedown in the dirt and glanced around. Except for the trees and vegetation, the area was empty. No screaming apparition. No washer woman. No sign of animal life either though that didn't mean much. With the rain shower they would have gone to ground anyway.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore.
She had to be here. His brother's life depended on it.
Sam flung his hands wide, hoping to draw her out. "Come out and get me!" he shouted, unable to hear if his voice carried over the storm.
Nothing.
Temptation to pull the mufflers and earbuds away rolled through him. He needed all his working senses. What if the woman's weeping flowed through the thicket right now, drawing him to her like she had Dean, but he missed it?
One hand swept up to the headset, the other bringing the shotgun forward. Resisting, Sam let his hand drop from his head, leaving the mufflers in place and followed along the stream. As a conduit for all things on the spirit wavelength, staying near the water was his best bet, especially looking for a fabled washer woman of the ford.
Rain pelted him. His soaked T-shirt clung like a second skin.
A chill colder than the rain skittered up his spine like frozen fingers.
Sam spun back around and saw her.
Right there where he'd just been, where he and Jo found Dean.
Her back to him, she crouched over a wooden bucket, her slim arms moved back and forth, scrubbing bloody jeans across the ridges of a slanted washing board. The wind whipped her silver hair around her slight form. Tremors ran through her. Her shoulders hitched up and down from obvious weeping that Sam couldn't hear behind the electric whine of Page and Bonham.
Pulling the Celtic cross from around his neck, Sam held it out in front of him and edged toward her.
The gray gown billowed up in a sudden lift of wind. He eased forward, the cross nearly touching the back of the spirit's head. Leaves swirled between them. His heart thundered with the pulse of the music.
Sam leaned closer.
The woman disappeared.
He stumbled forward, hitting his toe against the wooden bucket, making pinkish water slosh over the sides.
He spun, swiping the cross outward in an arc.
The woman reappeared, her face inches from his neck, her mouth pulled back in a soundless scream.
Sam plunged the cross into her chest, his hand slipping through her insubstantial form and burying the Celtic symbol into her lungs and…nothing happened.
Eyes wide, Sam stared down at her and swung the shotgun up, but before he got off a shot, the apparition's arm slammed forward and Sam sailed backwards, hitting against something solid-had to be a tree-and bounced to the ground, gun and cross flying out of his hands.
~~~
"Dean!"
How did he get loose? She never should have taken her eyes off him for a second. Jo's butt squashed against the bathroom counter, her spine arcing back with the hard length of out-of-his-head Dean pressing into her.
His sweaty chest moved up and down, pulling in hard ragged breaths. His lips were slightly parted, throat working and his wild eyes flitted about the small space, never landing long on any one thing. Until…
Jo knew the moment he found it though she doubted he even registered what he'd been seeking. Her purse.
Leaving her weapons bag safely locked in the trunk of her car, the only other weapons in the hotel, besides Dean's knife she'd hidden behind the television cabinet, were her own knife and Glock she carried in her purse, which she'd purposely stashed on the tank of the toilet in the bathroom to keep away from Dean. Great job on that, she raked herself over the coals.
He lunged forward and she shoved him back with everything she had. The force rammed him out the door and into the wall. No way was he going to get his hands on a weapon.
She let the momentum carry her forward and flung her arm across his collar bone to hold him in place. "Dean! Stop it!" Her voice was guttural with fear.
In a move she couldn't identify, Dean yanked her wrist forward, spinning her around in a smooth circle that shoved her out of his way. He lunged toward the bathroom again, but his speed was no match for a woman who was scared out of her wits.
Completing the spin he'd sent her on, Jo dove in front of him, tripping him up and they fell forward, sliding on the bunching bathroom rug. As though she wasn't even there, Dean clamored over her, reaching up for the purse, but Jo wrapped her arms around his hips, twisting her legs around his and hung on, keeping him on the floor.
But even under a banshee's spell, the guy was determined. He stretched, knees digging against the floor, feet pressing against the tub and counter for stability while he twisted, trying to throw whatever was stopping him-which happened to be her-off. Her elbow jarred hard against the tub, sending a streak of lightening through her arm, loosening her hold.
Dean's long body surged upward. No no, nuh-uh. Twisting around, Jo grabbed hold of Dean's legs and pulled, wincing at the crack of his chin on the toilet's edge as he flew back, finger snagged in her purse strap and the contents of her bag spilled across the floor-cosmetics, phone, paperback, mirror, tissues, mints, knife… Gun.
~~~
Dazed, Sam blinked and struggled upward, one hand pushing against the pebbles at the bottom of the rushing stream. He made it to all fours and the banshee ripped him from the soggy ground.
Slight though she was, she held him aloft like he weighed nothing. Her fingers dug into his head, substantial enough to do damage, thumbs curling into his temples. Sam swung out, arms passing through her head like water. How was that fair? Spirit matter trailed his arms, pulling from her face and shoulders, making her blur like an abstract painting. Sam's legs bicycled in the air, finding even less to connect with.
Rain slapped them. The wind flung the banshee's hair forward into Sam's face and then back again to stream behind her.
The banshee lowered him toward her. Her pupils flashed red, flaming pinpricks Sam couldn't look away from. He struggled to get out of her iron grip. It was all so surreal, the storm lashing around them while pulsating drums and straining guitars screamed through the earbuds. The banshee's lips curled back in a snarl-no, in the beginnings of a scream.
The iPod gave a silent click, scanning to the next track. Suddenly the storm was in his ears. The wind wailed, rain pounded the ground and trees, making branches snap and crack.
A low vibration rumbled through Sam's bones like an electrical current. The barest edge of a shriek assaulted Sam's head, blinding him to everything as the specter blurred in front of him and his vision faded. The screech changed tone, pulsing through him…and was cut off abruptly by the opening drums of Breaking Benjamin's Evil Angel.
Blinking out of the sudden stupor, Sam punched the banshee again with the same non-effect of passing right through her. Her mouth hinged impossibly wide with her keening shriek. But the music was working. As long as Sam couldn't hear her cry, it no longer had any effect on him.
The banshee pulled him as close as a lover, mouth impossibly wide in a pulsing scream. Frigid breath washed over him. The vibrations rolled across his skin in tingles. Her eyes widened, the glow within them dulling and changing to brown as her brows pinched together in confusion.
Without warning, she hurled Sam to the side. He slammed to the ground like a rag doll, all floppy limbs and air pummeled out of his lungs. He heaved in a breath at the same time an invisible force flung him back, rolling him in the tumultuous air to land with jarring force in the stream. He blinked up at the woman standing demurely above him, her gown flapping around her, a smug smile curving her lip.
He was in a crapload of trouble. The banshee didn't have to shriek him to death. She was more than strong enough to bat him around and let the trees and ground break him like a ball caught in a pinball machine. And he still didn't know how to get her curse off his brother.
~~~
Loud. So damn miserably loud. All Dean knew was that he had to get to that gun to make it all stop. It all had to stop. Everything. It would be okay then, everything would be just fine once he got the gun and made it all stop.
His head hammered with the noise, every tendon of his being trembling and focused on getting hold of that weapon though he didn't understand why exactly that was so important-just that he had to. He couldn't think beyond anything past the painful assault in his brain.
Yet something was trying to stop him, pulling, keeping him away from the shiny little Glock that meant everything. He kicked out blindly, hearing a pained exclamation that drilled down through the noise, shocking his senses. That shouldn't be right, should it? What was happening? He didn't understand what was going on.
A new surge of pain erupted behind his eyes, making the edges of his sight go dark and murky and he slammed his fists against his forehead, trying to press the agony away. Shut up shut up shut up! The urge to grab the gun, make it all go away intensified, crushing all other thought beneath grinding agony. Get the gun, it will stop. Nothing else was as important as getting the damn gun. Nothing else mattered.
With a roar of pain, Dean elbow-crawled forward, dragging the pulling weight wrapped across his legs with him. Vaguely, he heard other screams below the screech of the woman pulsating through his head.
Shaking, he winced against it. Sweat dripped from his hair, caking his forehead as he stretched, cracking his bones, growling with effort and…
His hand curled over the cold metal of the gun.
The shrieking ripped through him, tensing his shuddering muscles so tightly he thought they'd tear. He lay on his stomach panting, holding the gun-his prize-without knowing why or what was supposed to happen next. Something. It was crucial.
A horrific whine punched through his skull and instinctively to protect himself against it, Dean brought his quaking hands back to his head. He barely felt the cold hard muzzle dig into his heated cheek, didn't realize his finger quivered near the trigger.
~~~
Sam crashed headfirst into the bush, falling through thin pointy branches that snagged and tore through his clothes and skin. Twisting, gaining more scratches, he clawed out of the brush on all fours, scrabbling to get away from the furious banshee, the classical rock strains mimicking the wild thuds of his heart.
She was hurling him around like a shot-put. His battered body couldn't take much more. He still didn't know how to stop her and help Dean. Between being thrown around and rattling landings, he could barely think. He had to get out of here. Getting himself killed wouldn't help his brother. They needed another plan.
He staggered to his feet and was immediately hauled backwards and slammed against a tree, the breath knocked out of him. Bark dug into his back. Pinned by nothing he could see, the banshee floated toward him and locked her hands around his throat, further choking off air.
Red eyes bore into his, her face a gruesome husk of mottled rage. He grabbed for her wrists to pull her hands off him, but he couldn't get a hold, kept passing right through her arms like clawing through frigid streams of air.
Black sparklers exploded across his vision, his lungs compressing to draw in life-saving oxygen. Benjamin Burnley crooned of surrender, surrender.
The banshee's mouth opened wide, lips trembling in a scream Sam couldn't hear. … can't I breathe, evil ang… Mist curled out of her throat, washing cold across Sam's face like smoke blown from a cigarette. Blinking hard against both the eerie vapor and the rain water, Sam worried if seeing the scream was as deadly as hearing it, though with his vision blurring and unable to pull in a breath neither would be a problem much longer.
He felt his back slide against the tree, his strength waning, arms flopping to his sides with only the banshee's brutal hold dragging him up. His eyelids fluttered, obstinate determination to not give in the only thing keeping him conscious.
The banshee slapped out, snapping Sam's head to the side. His teeth tore through his lip. Her nostrils flared, chest heaving up and down in frustrated pants and shoved him away. Sam hit the ground hard, the last of his air pummeled from his lungs.
He rolled onto his back, sucking air into his swollen throat and saw a wall of leaves and branches crashing down on him. Rolling again, Sam scrambled away and more branches flew at him.
Crap, crap! Tired of batting him around the trees, the she-devil was throwing the trees at him!
Crawling across mud and wet leaves, Sam's hand fell upon the Celtic cross. He grabbed it up on a spin and an ancient log rammed into his side and plowed him across the ground, mud spraying his face, ripping the ear mufflers off and driving him into the shallow stream. His head banged against the washer woman's bucket.
Coughing out water, Sam turned to his back at the same moment a mass of bark slammed down on him.
~~~
"Dean. Listen to me." A soft voice floated to him, strained in fear. Jo?
He rocked onto his knees, scooting across the cold tile, cool metal pressed into the hollow of his cheek. He was friggin holding a gun to his head. Shaking, he couldn't let go, had to pull the trigger so the lady in his head would shut up. Shut the freakin hell up. This was all so wrong.
"Jo?" He spoke her name like a sob. Like a wounded animal. This was all so wrong. He just needed the banshee to stop screaming so he could think, figure this out. He moved the gun to his temple, hitting the side of the barrel over and over against his head as though he could beat the screeching out of his brain.
Hands closed over his, trying to wrench the gun from his grasp.
No! He needed it. He had to stop the screaming. Had to! Lunging forward, he threw his attacker backward and fell over the top of it.
Sprawled over the thing trying to yank his salvation away, Dean wrestled for the weapon. The banshee's shriek intensified, drilling a hole in his head. Everything went out of focus except for the shiny gun. But the monster wasn't letting go. He dragged the gun around, the other set of hands locked around it. He got the muzzle turned, burrowing into his chest. His finger pulled.
~~~
Everything hurt. Water gurgled and sputtered over Sam's legs. The wind shrieked, slapping slender branches from the tree pressing across him. Guitars whined from a distorted distance. He'd lost the iPod in his desperate scramble and the music was blaring through the earbuds somewhere.
Pushing up, Sam bit back a cry, a spike of pain radiating from his side, but the tree covering him lifted a bit. With effort he could scoot out. Where was the banshee? He looked around, craning his neck to see through the bouncing branches and leaves. The washing bucket sat tilted near his head, wind-whipped suds splashing over the side.
He had to get out of here. Without the earbuds he had no protection against the banshee. Nothing. His shotgun was out of reach under the fallen trees somewhere. He still had the little Celtic cross gripped tightly in his grasp. Great. He'd managed to hold onto the most useless thing.
Sam lifted his head and shoulders out of the mud, clenching his jaw against an abrupt flare of pain. Breathing through it, he dragged himself backwards, sloshing his hips through the water. Live to fight another day. He groaned, pulling his foot loose from-whatever it was that was pinning it. Tangled tree limbs he supposed.
He almost had it free, would be able to scoot out from under this tree…if he could just twist his ankle…a…little…more…
The shriek drilled inside his head with the force of an electric screwdriver. His muscles clenched, spine went rigid. Shaking with effort, he clamped his palms over his ears. It was incredibly loud, stealing thoughts and images. All Sam could focus on was that keening screech. Resembling the moan of a bird and shattering glass, the sound pulsated into him, a possession of limb and heart, body and mind. He was helpless against it, constrained within a pressing barrage of noise and crushing vibration that closed around him, squeezing tighter and tighter like the coils of an anaconda.
He screamed, the slight sound torn away beneath the ratcheting keen in his head. If this was even half of what Dean had been going through, small wonder his brother had been out of his head batshit crazy.
Nuuh, Dean.
Sam couldn't give in to this. If he did, his brother would die.
He pulled his eyes open, blinking through tears of effort. The banshee stood near his thigh, gray skirt flowing like incandescent smoke through the fallen tree. Tears streamed down her cheeks, no longer angry though her pupils sparked red and her mouth stretched in an elongated cry.
Sam had to do something. He couldn't just let her keen at him until he went crazy and tried to off himself too.
Clenched muscles trembling, he lifted the cross toward her skirt, even knowing touching her with it hadn't helped before. Shaking his head as though that could pull him from the stupor, Sam suddenly twisted, stretching, screaming at the hitch in his side and plunged his fist, Celtic cross and all, into the washing bucket.
And the shriek intensified a thousandfold. Sam bucked against the assault, every cell in his body on the verge of exploding.
The water in the bucket churned, spitting outward. Sam plunged his hand in all the way to the bottom, his body curled over. The wind kicked up and the banshee screamed. Her hair billowed upward. Coils of snapping light crackled around her, slapping outward like whips. Sam flinched beneath each strike that hit him. The wet ground sizzled.
With a last deafening shriek, the banshee arched backward and exploded in a blinding funnel of light.
~~~
The banshee's shriek intensified, shrilling through Dean's head with terrible strength and then abruptly stopped.
Head pounding, he blinked rapidly in an attempt to right his vision. Slowly everything settled into a wavery view.
He lay sprawled up top of Jo. Strands of hair stuck to her face, wet with sweat and tears. Her jaw was clenched tight and she suddenly wrenched the gun that was between them from his lax hands.
"Don't you do it!" she screamed, tears spilling from her distressed eyes.
What had he done?
Dean pushed up onto his elbows, taking some of his weight off her, though he felt nauseous and weak. His palm slipped over her cheek, tracing the bruise at her temple. Her wince was a jolt to his gut. "Jo?"
She pulled the pistol closer to her chest, cradling it with both hands, and blinked up at him. Her throat worked.
"Are you…you?"
"Yeah." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Yeah. I think so. Banshee quit screaming."
Jo frowned, unconvinced. Her glassy eyes were unsure.
They stared at each other, taking inventory. Dean searched his brain for any lingering trace of the banshee. "Sam must have gotten rid of her." He stiffened. Sam. His kid brother was out there alone. "Where's my phone?"
~~~
In the passenger seat, Jo held onto the dashboard with a white-knuckled grip as the car bounced and swerved on the narrow dirt road, pitching her around in the seat.
Dean sped down the road, not seeming to care that he was driving, well, a Porsche nine-eleven GT3. The only thing he cared about was that it was fast and was getting him to his brother.
Spying a huge pothole ahead, Jo shrieked. He swerved around it, getting close to the ditch. Water splashed across the windshield.
"Come on, come on, pick up," he grumbled into the phone pressed to his ear. He'd been calling Sam since they ran out of the hotel, only getting voicemail.
"Dean, we're here," she called out before he drove right by the turnoff. Fishtailing, he swung the Porsche onto the even thinner road, sliding on mud, and quickly correcting for it, straightened the car onto the road. Jo locked her arms tighter against the dash.
Dean pulled in front of the large house, skidding to a stop behind the Impala. He flew out of the car like a bullet, punching Sam's number again as he ran to the monster car, boots slouching in the mud and jerked the door open to look inside.
The glove box was rattling. Leaning over, not caring that he was getting his seat wet, he yanked open the box. Sam's vibrating phone lit up the interior.
"Dammit." Dean slapped his phone shut. "Sam!" he shouted into the storm.
Stiffening her spine, Jo headed around the dark house, sloughing through the soggy grass. Dean's long strides easily caught up as they ran through the backyard and into the trees, racing to the area Dean had first gone in.
"Oh no." Jo ground to a stop.
It looked like a tornado had touched ground and then suddenly lifted off again. Trees and bushes, torn from their roots, lay scattered around the small space.
"Sam!" Dean's voice teetered on the brink of panic.
Without a word, they both scrambled into the destruction, pulling up loose branches. "Sam!" They called out in unison.
"Wait." Jo heard something. Music. Faint and tinny.
Dean stilled, his features laced with worry.
"Here." She followed the sound, pulling through debris, scraping her arm across sharp broken tree limbs, and pulled out . . . an iPod? She lifted it to show Dean.
Frowning, he shook his head and called out for Sam before plowing back into the destruction.
She knew when he found him by the strangled noise Dean made deep in his throat. He started throwing branches and foliage aside. Jo waded through the wreckage to get to them.
"Sam, Sam. Come on." Dean was knee deep in a tangle of branches. A shock of brown hair was visible among torn foliage and leaves. Jo pushed aside tangled bushes and branches, finding a fallen tree across Sam's stomach. His legs were in the churning stream.
"Wake up, come on, Sam." Dean shoved more of the foliage away, his actions jerky with desperation.
Jo unburied Sam's arm from the mud, shocked at how cold he was. "Dean, we got to get him warmed up."
Dean's head snapped up, his gaze zeroing in on the offending log pinning his brother. Pulling his jacket off, he covered Sam's chest and went after the tree. "Help me." He lifted the trunk up a few inches. The stream slurped around Sam, mud crumpling beneath him, sucking him farther into the water.
Jo dug her arms in the mud, hooking her hands beneath Sam's armpits. "Got him. Lift." She pulled while Dean lifted, both grunting, neither giving up until Sam's legs were clear. Jo fell back on her butt, the back of Sam's head hitting her stomach.
Face flushed, Dean plopped down beside them.
"Sam, come on."
Sam's head rolled to the side. Jo curled her arms around him before he slipped off face-first in the mud. He groaned.
Dean edged forward, leaning over them and when Sam's lashes lifted, Jo's breath caught at the sudden transformation of Dean's features.
She'd witnessed firsthand the many and varied sides to one Dean Winchester. Sometimes in hunter mode he could be downright scary while at other times when he allowed his guard to slip, she'd glimpse a rare vulnerability that made every female instinct she possessed want to pull him into her arms and just hold on, and then there were those other moments . . . when he looked at her like she was sure he never looked at any other woman that made her shiver and want to throw caution through the window-but this-this baring of soul that she wouldn't have seen if she wasn't so close to Sam-stunned her.
She'd never have believed so much potent emotion could be conveyed with one look. It physically hurt.
And then it was gone, shuttered away behind an expression of worry and soothing words that she couldn't make out with her world reeling from the intensity of one moment passed between brothers.
"Come on, Sam." The weight was lifted from her legs. Dean drew Sam's arm over his shoulder while the younger man found his footing and together starting climbing through the rubble.
Pausing, Dean looked back. "Jo?" Sam's head slumped lower.
Jo shook herself out of her daze. Sam needed help, the least of which to get warm and there she sat in the mud. Pushing up, she fitted herself beneath Sam's other arm and helped Dean get him through the collision course of fallen trees, past the old house and settled into the back seat of the Impala and covered in every blanket and jacket they had in their respective trunks.
Dean closed the back door and stood in the rain, staring through the window at his younger sibling, an unreadable expression stilling his features.
Jo felt like an intruder even approaching him. "I'll, um, follow you back to the hotel."
He jolted, seeming to come out of his own stupor and shook his head, flinging rain water. "Yeah. We'll . . . " The look he turned on her then was young, hopeful. "He'll be okay?" He said it like a question desperately needing the right answer.
Jo bobbed her head, needing just as desperately to give him that. "Yeah." She smiled, her heart breaking just a little bit more. "He's just cold and tired. He'll be fine."
Dean wiped a hand across his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, okay." His features settled into a sad smile. "Okay." He opened the driver's side door before stilling. "Hey Jo." He finally looked at her. "Thank you."
She shrugged, all sorts of feelings jumping around in her tight belly. "Sure."
Dean grinned and flowed into his car and as the Impala pulled onto the road, Jo wept.
~~~Fin~~~
Sam's banshee-fighting playlist:
Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood and the Destroyers
Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin
Evil Angel by Breaking Benjamin