Vengeance Is Mine 6/?
Title: Vengeance Is Mine
Genre: gen, h/c
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence,
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC,
Chapter word count: 2434
Warning: Season 2 Finale spoiler.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I can lay no claims to the sexy boys. =( Just having fun with them.
~*~*~
Sam kept a watchful eye on Dean all the way back to to Blanche's cabin. Other than his complaints about a splitting headache and Sam driving his car, Dean seemed just fine.
Sam breathed a silent thank you into the air and tried to ignore his brother's griping. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Dean would you just shut up?" he begged. "You aren't driving for a couple days so get over it."
Dean stiffened and glared stonily. "She's my car," he reminded darkly and Sam raised his eyebrows.
"I don't give a crap if she's your car, Dean. You have a concussion. You can't drive. At least not until we examine you."
"We?" Dean repeated. "As in you and that girl?"
"Blanche," Sam supplied and Dean shrugged, uncaring.
"Whatever. Uh uh, no way is that loco woman touching me." He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow challengingly at Sam who threw up his hands in surrender.
"Fine. I'll do it."
"Hands on the wheel," Dean barked and Sam slapped his palms back around the smooth curve of the wheel.
"Okay Dean, relax," he soother. "You'll make your headache worse."
"You'll make my headache worse," Dean muttered under his breath and Sam ignored him easily. Dean could be such a child at times.
Blanche's truck was already parked haphazardly in her yard when the boys pulled up. She had rapidly outdistanced them due to Dean positively insisting that Sam take it at a turtles pace on the road to her cabin.
Sam parked beside the chevy and slammed his door, hurrying around to help Dean out. His brother shoved away his helping hands and pulled his own self up, clinging white-knuckled to the Impala's roof.
"Sam, quite touching me," he snapped. But Sam sprang forward when Dean swayed and slipped under Dean's arm, supporting him.
"Shut up Dean," he said fondly. "Just walk."
Dean pressed his lips shut and let Sam steady him up the stairs.
Blanche stood leaning in the doorframe at the top and Dean pulled away from Sam.
"I'm fine. I can do it," he insisted proudly and walked crookedly into the kitchen were he collapsed heavily into a chair, holding his head in his hands.
Blanche crouched in front of him and gently moved his hands away from his face, tilting his chin up with her left hand.
"Dean look at me," she instructed, her voice as soft as it had been hard earlier, and Dean did as she asked, vaguely intrigued that hands so soft could be so violent.
Blanche peered into his eyes, shining a small penlight back and forth between them. "How many fingers Dean," She waved three fingers in his face and he rolled his eyes, pushing her away.
"Three. I'm fine," he repeated for the tenth time and Blanche straightened.
"Not nauseous or anything?" she probed and Dean shook his head, then grimaced.
"I'll get you some ibuprofen," she offered and hurried away.
"So, who isn't touching you?" Sam was leaning against the counter and he raised smug eyebrows at Dean, who glared half-heartedly in his direction.
"Can it bitch." He stood, wavered as he waited for the vertigo to pass and strode to the cabinets, opening several before he found a drinking glass.
"Jerk," Sam muttered, grinning. Dean grinned and was pouring himself a drink from the tap when Blanche returned.
"Here," she proffered the little white bottle and Dean set the glass down and took it, popping the lid and shaking two tablets into his palm. After a moment's hesitation he shook out two more and dropped all four into his mouth, downing them with several gulps of water.
Blanche took the bottle back and stood tapping it against her leg.
"You mind if I fix your head?" she asked tentatively and Dean stared at her for a long moment, puzzled by her rapidly changing demeanors.
She stared back and he finally relented. "Fine. I can't see the side of my head anyway." He spread his hands and looked around. "Where do you want me?"
Blanche looked briefly pleased. "Come into the bathroom. The lighting is better."
Dean glanced at Sam and shrugged, following Blanche like a obedient puppy.
Sam grinned. "I'll get the stuff out of the Impala," he called and was answered with a grunt from Dean.
"Okay then," he muttered to himself and headed out the door.
"So how old are you?" Dean asked conversationally, seating himself on the counter and watching Blanche.
She glanced at him and she fished the antiseptic of of the cabinet again. "Twenty-two," she replied, shoving a mini-medical kit into his hands. "Hold this. Shall I stitch you up or no?"
Dean frowned. "Can't it go without stitches?" he asked hopefully and Blanche bit the corner of her lip.
"I personally would put some in but let me clean it first before you decide. It might not be as bad as it looks right now."
Dean twisted slightly to catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair was soaked with blood with had trickled down his ear and neck and was smeared all over, soaking his right shoulder as well.
"That does look bad," he said distastefully and Blanche nodded.
"Yeah but head wounds do tend to bleed heavily so matter how serious," she remarked and Dean faced forward again.
"Take your shirt off before I do anything," Blanche instructed. "You want to wash it or throw it out?"
"I'll wash it." He pushed himself off the counter and carefully peeled off his shirt, wincing at the sudden pain.
He heard Blanche's sharp intake of breath and he turned to face her.
"What?"
She reached out and pivoted him back away from her, her hand warm on his arm.
"I guess we know where that pipe hit you. Besides your head," she said, touching his back and Dean jerked away.
"Sorry," she apologized quickly. "You have two big bruises across your shoulders. Doesn't it hurt?"
"It does now," Dean informed her. "I only noticed my head before." He turned around again and this time Blanche's eyes focused on his left shoulder, as if drawn by a magnet.
He watched as her clear gray eyes grew enormous and her lips formed a silent 'O'.
"How did you get that?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hand reached out slowly and Dean pulled back just before she touched the angry red, raised handprint on his skin.
She lowered her hand and looked unsure. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I didn't mean--"
"It's fine," Dean said quickly, sorry he'd jerked away. "It's just, uncomfortable. I'm not used to it yet." He rubbed it and his eye were hard.
"What happened?" Blanche wanted to know, and Dean had to bit his tongue not to snap at her.
"I'd rather not talk about it," he admitted and Blanche instantly backed off.
"Okay," she said brightly, instantly dropping the subject, though Dean could see she was desperately curious. "Um, just, stand still and let me wash that blood off of you."
She turned away, mind churning furiously as she dampened the towel. How on earth would he get a burn that bad? And shaped like a hand too. She had a feeling there was a long story behind it, but she kept her lips shut, unaware that Dean could clearly read the emotions flitting across her face.
He stood very still as she carefully cleaned around his head wound, not moving even when the water tricked down his neck and left a pink trail down his chest. Blanche saw it and traced her finger up it from bottom to top, the smear disappearing under her touch.
She rinsed out the bloody cloth several times before she finally left it in the sink.
"Okay, sit down and I'll disinfect it."
Dean did as instructed, keeping his eyes on her face as she front in front of him, gently dabbing at the gash.
"it's about 3 inches across and pretty deep," she observed quietly, wrinkling her nose. "You need stitches Dean. Only a couple."
Dean sighed and nodded resignedly. "Okay then, have at it."
Both he and Blanche were silent as she threaded a needle and started sewing him up. Dean's fists were clenching and unclenching on his knees and every once in a while he drew a sharp hissing breath. Only Blanche's soft reassuring touch to his scarless shoulder kept him from shoving her away and saying to heck with it.
"Done," Blanche breathed finally, snipping the thread and Dean relaxed visibly, his muscles unknotting and his shoulders dropping slightly.
"I'm sorry I didn't have any anesthetic for you," Blanche apologized as she set down the needle, and Dean met her gaze. She was still standing between his legs, having moved in closer and closer during the impromptu surgery. Now she was mere inches from him and he could see every tiny freckles on her nose and every fleck of dark gray in her eyes.
Impulsively, he reached out and slid his hand into her hair, pulling her head forward to kiss her. She did not resist and Dean's mouth lingered on her soft warm lips, feeling the fleeting touch of her tongue before she drew back.
"What was that for?" she breathed and he could feel her pulse racing under his hand on her neck.
Dean hesitated an instant too long. "Thank you?" he said finally, inwardly kicking himself and Blanche looked away.
"You're welcome then." She stepped out of his arms and started cleaning up the mess. Dean slid off the counter and stood awkwardly in the way, trying to think of some way to amend his blunder. Giving up after a moment, he turned to leave.
"Wait." Blanche stopped him as he started out the door. "I have something for your back." She closed the cabinet and smiled at him as he turned. "It's just a rub for aches and pains, but it'll take away the stiffness and dull the pain."
"Okay." Dean turned back to lean his hands on the counter as she gently massaged the cream over his back, the stiffness melting away under her touch.
Their eyes met in the mirror and he found himself suddenly liking her tough, bad-girl attitude, forgetting the disparaging comments he'd made about her to Sam.
Speak of the Devil, Dean thought as Sam appeared in the doorway. Wait, that's a horrible thought.
"Dean gets a massage?" Sam's puppy-dog eyes kicked in full power and Blanche looked up to laugh softly at him.
"He also got 9 stitches. You want those too?" she teased and Sam grinned.
"No, but I'll have some of this." He picked up the tube of muscle rub and turned it over in his hands.
Dean straightened. "I thought you said you weren't hurt," he confronted Sam, trying to sound casual but Sam could hear the concern laced through his voice.
"Dean, I'm fine. It's just a bruise on my back," he assured him and Dean seemed only slightly reassured.
"I'll rub it on for you," Blanched offered. "I'm all done with you Dean."
He nodded, eyes on Sam. "Thanks," he said, moving past his brother. "I'll go find a shirt."
"The bags are upstairs," Sam informed him and turned to Blanche.
"Shirt off," she ordered and Sam obeyed. His bruise wasn't too bad she noted, and told him as much.
"Well thanks for the rub anyway," he said as he pulled his shirt on, and Blanche watched his six-pack disappear beneath the cotton.
"No problem," she smiled. "Now I want to know what you guys know about the thing that killed my dad."
She glanced behind her as Dean came down the stairs, clad now in a black tee shirt, the handprint hidden though her eyes still touched his shoulder. The two men followed her into the kitchen where Sam pointed to the table.
"I already have it all out," he said and Dean glanced over it.
"So we're doing homework now?" he observed and flopped into a chair.
Sam seated himself in front of the laptop and Blanche leaned into the open fridge. Dean stretched up to watch and Sam ignored him, but watching her out of the corner of his eye as well.
"Thirsty?" Blanch smiled, straightening with three perspiring bottles of beer. Dean grinned at Sam. This girl was getting better by the minute.
Her caught the icy bottle she tossed his way and popped the top on the edge of the table. She slid a bottle to Sam and slipped into the seat on his far side, away from Dean. He paused, bottle to his lips then shrugged his eyebrows and swallowed.
"So fill me in." Blanche leaned over Sam's arm and studied the computer screen. He swallowed hard as her hair tickled his arm.
Dean sighed. This was going to be interesting.
~*~*~
It was early afternoon, and several hours later when Sam finally closed the laptop, leaning back with a sigh.
"So we don't know much more than we both did before huh?" Blanche sighed, letter her upper body stretch across the table.
Dean looked thoughtful. "Blanche, what's the real story of Jennifer Lowry's death?" he asked, and Blanche slid upright, pushing her fingers through her hair.
"You think it was a ghost?" she asked uncertainly and Dean shrugged
"We wont know unless we find out how Jenny really died."
Blanche nodded. "You're right. Well, the way Wanda told me was that--"
"We're heard Wanda's version," Sam interrupted and Dean nodded in agreement.
"Not this Wanda-version," Blanche countered. "She didn't trust you. She wouldn't have told you the real story."
Sam and Dean sat back, waiting for Blanche to continue.
"The official story was that she fell in. Only she didn't. She was thrown in."
"Thrown?" Sam echoed and Blanched nodded, fiddling with her bracelets. Sam could see the latin letters carved into them and tilted his head, trying to read them.
Blanche paused and stared at him. Sam flushed to the roots of his hair and straightened.
"Sorry. I was reading your bracelets," he explained sheepishly and Blanche looked impressed.
"You can read Latin?" she questioned and Sam nodded.
"Write and speak it too," he confessed and Blanche smiled.
"I'm impressed. My brother made me these: one for every hunt we were ever on together. I've lost some or broken them over the years though." She fell silent and regarded her bracelets with eyes bright with unshed tears.
Dean felt a familiar pang and looked away. He had no idea how he would survive if he ever lost Sam. He'd already proved he couldn't handle life without Sam, selling his soul to a crossroads demon to get his brother back. He wasn't sure if he would manage to survive if he lost him again.
Sam gently touched Blanche's hand, bringing her back to the present with a start as she turned dewy eyes on him.
"You were telling us about Jenny's death?" he prompted, trying not think about those sad gray eyes, and Blanche nodded and breathed deeply to compose herself.
"It happened at a party up at the top of the reservoir. There were a dozen or so kids, fresh out of high school and drunker than drunk. They decided it'd be fun to play a Houdini-like game. And they selected Jenny to go first, even thought she was sober enough to resist, knowing it was dangerous.
"They duct-taped a knife to a glow stick and then threw it into the reservoir. Then, they used the tape on Jenny."
Dean closed his eyes, knowing what came next.
"They taped her feet and hands and threw her into the reservoir after the knife." Blanche shook her head. "She obviously was no Houdini."
Sam looked horrified. "Dean, Jenny is definitely our killer. But why the vampire bite? She's a ghost."
Dean shook his head. "I don't know Sam, but Bobby will or he'll find out." Shoving back his chair, Dean stood ands strode outside, digging his cell phone from his pocket.
"Who's Bobby?" Blanche wanted to know and Sam stood, stacking the paper on the laptop.
"He's the closest thing have to a dad," he answered and Blanche looked sympathetic.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice gentle and Sam grinned at her.
"I'll tell Bobby you said that."
Blanche looked horrified and then laughed along. "That's not what I meant," she protested and Sam sobered slightly.
"I know. Our dad's been dead for over two years now." His hands paused and he gave Blanche a small smile. "Dean misses him a lot, though he won't tell you."
"What about you?" Blanche pressed and Sam drew a deep breath.
"Oh I miss him too. But he and Dean were close." He scooped up the laptop and headed for the stairs, grabbing an apple from the counter on his way past.
"You don't mind right?" he asked, stopping and turning to regard Blanche and the apple
"What?" she looked up and stood, seeing the apple and realizing what he meant. "Oh no, please help yourself. You don't need to ask for anything." She smiled and hugged herself with one arm, absently tracing the bandage over her Dean-inflicted cut. " 'S fine."
Chapter 7
Genre: gen, h/c
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence,
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC,
Chapter word count: 2434
Warning: Season 2 Finale spoiler.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I can lay no claims to the sexy boys. =( Just having fun with them.
~*~*~
Sam kept a watchful eye on Dean all the way back to to Blanche's cabin. Other than his complaints about a splitting headache and Sam driving his car, Dean seemed just fine.
Sam breathed a silent thank you into the air and tried to ignore his brother's griping. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Dean would you just shut up?" he begged. "You aren't driving for a couple days so get over it."
Dean stiffened and glared stonily. "She's my car," he reminded darkly and Sam raised his eyebrows.
"I don't give a crap if she's your car, Dean. You have a concussion. You can't drive. At least not until we examine you."
"We?" Dean repeated. "As in you and that girl?"
"Blanche," Sam supplied and Dean shrugged, uncaring.
"Whatever. Uh uh, no way is that loco woman touching me." He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow challengingly at Sam who threw up his hands in surrender.
"Fine. I'll do it."
"Hands on the wheel," Dean barked and Sam slapped his palms back around the smooth curve of the wheel.
"Okay Dean, relax," he soother. "You'll make your headache worse."
"You'll make my headache worse," Dean muttered under his breath and Sam ignored him easily. Dean could be such a child at times.
Blanche's truck was already parked haphazardly in her yard when the boys pulled up. She had rapidly outdistanced them due to Dean positively insisting that Sam take it at a turtles pace on the road to her cabin.
Sam parked beside the chevy and slammed his door, hurrying around to help Dean out. His brother shoved away his helping hands and pulled his own self up, clinging white-knuckled to the Impala's roof.
"Sam, quite touching me," he snapped. But Sam sprang forward when Dean swayed and slipped under Dean's arm, supporting him.
"Shut up Dean," he said fondly. "Just walk."
Dean pressed his lips shut and let Sam steady him up the stairs.
Blanche stood leaning in the doorframe at the top and Dean pulled away from Sam.
"I'm fine. I can do it," he insisted proudly and walked crookedly into the kitchen were he collapsed heavily into a chair, holding his head in his hands.
Blanche crouched in front of him and gently moved his hands away from his face, tilting his chin up with her left hand.
"Dean look at me," she instructed, her voice as soft as it had been hard earlier, and Dean did as she asked, vaguely intrigued that hands so soft could be so violent.
Blanche peered into his eyes, shining a small penlight back and forth between them. "How many fingers Dean," She waved three fingers in his face and he rolled his eyes, pushing her away.
"Three. I'm fine," he repeated for the tenth time and Blanche straightened.
"Not nauseous or anything?" she probed and Dean shook his head, then grimaced.
"I'll get you some ibuprofen," she offered and hurried away.
"So, who isn't touching you?" Sam was leaning against the counter and he raised smug eyebrows at Dean, who glared half-heartedly in his direction.
"Can it bitch." He stood, wavered as he waited for the vertigo to pass and strode to the cabinets, opening several before he found a drinking glass.
"Jerk," Sam muttered, grinning. Dean grinned and was pouring himself a drink from the tap when Blanche returned.
"Here," she proffered the little white bottle and Dean set the glass down and took it, popping the lid and shaking two tablets into his palm. After a moment's hesitation he shook out two more and dropped all four into his mouth, downing them with several gulps of water.
Blanche took the bottle back and stood tapping it against her leg.
"You mind if I fix your head?" she asked tentatively and Dean stared at her for a long moment, puzzled by her rapidly changing demeanors.
She stared back and he finally relented. "Fine. I can't see the side of my head anyway." He spread his hands and looked around. "Where do you want me?"
Blanche looked briefly pleased. "Come into the bathroom. The lighting is better."
Dean glanced at Sam and shrugged, following Blanche like a obedient puppy.
Sam grinned. "I'll get the stuff out of the Impala," he called and was answered with a grunt from Dean.
"Okay then," he muttered to himself and headed out the door.
"So how old are you?" Dean asked conversationally, seating himself on the counter and watching Blanche.
She glanced at him and she fished the antiseptic of of the cabinet again. "Twenty-two," she replied, shoving a mini-medical kit into his hands. "Hold this. Shall I stitch you up or no?"
Dean frowned. "Can't it go without stitches?" he asked hopefully and Blanche bit the corner of her lip.
"I personally would put some in but let me clean it first before you decide. It might not be as bad as it looks right now."
Dean twisted slightly to catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair was soaked with blood with had trickled down his ear and neck and was smeared all over, soaking his right shoulder as well.
"That does look bad," he said distastefully and Blanche nodded.
"Yeah but head wounds do tend to bleed heavily so matter how serious," she remarked and Dean faced forward again.
"Take your shirt off before I do anything," Blanche instructed. "You want to wash it or throw it out?"
"I'll wash it." He pushed himself off the counter and carefully peeled off his shirt, wincing at the sudden pain.
He heard Blanche's sharp intake of breath and he turned to face her.
"What?"
She reached out and pivoted him back away from her, her hand warm on his arm.
"I guess we know where that pipe hit you. Besides your head," she said, touching his back and Dean jerked away.
"Sorry," she apologized quickly. "You have two big bruises across your shoulders. Doesn't it hurt?"
"It does now," Dean informed her. "I only noticed my head before." He turned around again and this time Blanche's eyes focused on his left shoulder, as if drawn by a magnet.
He watched as her clear gray eyes grew enormous and her lips formed a silent 'O'.
"How did you get that?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hand reached out slowly and Dean pulled back just before she touched the angry red, raised handprint on his skin.
She lowered her hand and looked unsure. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I didn't mean--"
"It's fine," Dean said quickly, sorry he'd jerked away. "It's just, uncomfortable. I'm not used to it yet." He rubbed it and his eye were hard.
"What happened?" Blanche wanted to know, and Dean had to bit his tongue not to snap at her.
"I'd rather not talk about it," he admitted and Blanche instantly backed off.
"Okay," she said brightly, instantly dropping the subject, though Dean could see she was desperately curious. "Um, just, stand still and let me wash that blood off of you."
She turned away, mind churning furiously as she dampened the towel. How on earth would he get a burn that bad? And shaped like a hand too. She had a feeling there was a long story behind it, but she kept her lips shut, unaware that Dean could clearly read the emotions flitting across her face.
He stood very still as she carefully cleaned around his head wound, not moving even when the water tricked down his neck and left a pink trail down his chest. Blanche saw it and traced her finger up it from bottom to top, the smear disappearing under her touch.
She rinsed out the bloody cloth several times before she finally left it in the sink.
"Okay, sit down and I'll disinfect it."
Dean did as instructed, keeping his eyes on her face as she front in front of him, gently dabbing at the gash.
"it's about 3 inches across and pretty deep," she observed quietly, wrinkling her nose. "You need stitches Dean. Only a couple."
Dean sighed and nodded resignedly. "Okay then, have at it."
Both he and Blanche were silent as she threaded a needle and started sewing him up. Dean's fists were clenching and unclenching on his knees and every once in a while he drew a sharp hissing breath. Only Blanche's soft reassuring touch to his scarless shoulder kept him from shoving her away and saying to heck with it.
"Done," Blanche breathed finally, snipping the thread and Dean relaxed visibly, his muscles unknotting and his shoulders dropping slightly.
"I'm sorry I didn't have any anesthetic for you," Blanche apologized as she set down the needle, and Dean met her gaze. She was still standing between his legs, having moved in closer and closer during the impromptu surgery. Now she was mere inches from him and he could see every tiny freckles on her nose and every fleck of dark gray in her eyes.
Impulsively, he reached out and slid his hand into her hair, pulling her head forward to kiss her. She did not resist and Dean's mouth lingered on her soft warm lips, feeling the fleeting touch of her tongue before she drew back.
"What was that for?" she breathed and he could feel her pulse racing under his hand on her neck.
Dean hesitated an instant too long. "Thank you?" he said finally, inwardly kicking himself and Blanche looked away.
"You're welcome then." She stepped out of his arms and started cleaning up the mess. Dean slid off the counter and stood awkwardly in the way, trying to think of some way to amend his blunder. Giving up after a moment, he turned to leave.
"Wait." Blanche stopped him as he started out the door. "I have something for your back." She closed the cabinet and smiled at him as he turned. "It's just a rub for aches and pains, but it'll take away the stiffness and dull the pain."
"Okay." Dean turned back to lean his hands on the counter as she gently massaged the cream over his back, the stiffness melting away under her touch.
Their eyes met in the mirror and he found himself suddenly liking her tough, bad-girl attitude, forgetting the disparaging comments he'd made about her to Sam.
Speak of the Devil, Dean thought as Sam appeared in the doorway. Wait, that's a horrible thought.
"Dean gets a massage?" Sam's puppy-dog eyes kicked in full power and Blanche looked up to laugh softly at him.
"He also got 9 stitches. You want those too?" she teased and Sam grinned.
"No, but I'll have some of this." He picked up the tube of muscle rub and turned it over in his hands.
Dean straightened. "I thought you said you weren't hurt," he confronted Sam, trying to sound casual but Sam could hear the concern laced through his voice.
"Dean, I'm fine. It's just a bruise on my back," he assured him and Dean seemed only slightly reassured.
"I'll rub it on for you," Blanched offered. "I'm all done with you Dean."
He nodded, eyes on Sam. "Thanks," he said, moving past his brother. "I'll go find a shirt."
"The bags are upstairs," Sam informed him and turned to Blanche.
"Shirt off," she ordered and Sam obeyed. His bruise wasn't too bad she noted, and told him as much.
"Well thanks for the rub anyway," he said as he pulled his shirt on, and Blanche watched his six-pack disappear beneath the cotton.
"No problem," she smiled. "Now I want to know what you guys know about the thing that killed my dad."
She glanced behind her as Dean came down the stairs, clad now in a black tee shirt, the handprint hidden though her eyes still touched his shoulder. The two men followed her into the kitchen where Sam pointed to the table.
"I already have it all out," he said and Dean glanced over it.
"So we're doing homework now?" he observed and flopped into a chair.
Sam seated himself in front of the laptop and Blanche leaned into the open fridge. Dean stretched up to watch and Sam ignored him, but watching her out of the corner of his eye as well.
"Thirsty?" Blanch smiled, straightening with three perspiring bottles of beer. Dean grinned at Sam. This girl was getting better by the minute.
Her caught the icy bottle she tossed his way and popped the top on the edge of the table. She slid a bottle to Sam and slipped into the seat on his far side, away from Dean. He paused, bottle to his lips then shrugged his eyebrows and swallowed.
"So fill me in." Blanche leaned over Sam's arm and studied the computer screen. He swallowed hard as her hair tickled his arm.
Dean sighed. This was going to be interesting.
~*~*~
It was early afternoon, and several hours later when Sam finally closed the laptop, leaning back with a sigh.
"So we don't know much more than we both did before huh?" Blanche sighed, letter her upper body stretch across the table.
Dean looked thoughtful. "Blanche, what's the real story of Jennifer Lowry's death?" he asked, and Blanche slid upright, pushing her fingers through her hair.
"You think it was a ghost?" she asked uncertainly and Dean shrugged
"We wont know unless we find out how Jenny really died."
Blanche nodded. "You're right. Well, the way Wanda told me was that--"
"We're heard Wanda's version," Sam interrupted and Dean nodded in agreement.
"Not this Wanda-version," Blanche countered. "She didn't trust you. She wouldn't have told you the real story."
Sam and Dean sat back, waiting for Blanche to continue.
"The official story was that she fell in. Only she didn't. She was thrown in."
"Thrown?" Sam echoed and Blanched nodded, fiddling with her bracelets. Sam could see the latin letters carved into them and tilted his head, trying to read them.
Blanche paused and stared at him. Sam flushed to the roots of his hair and straightened.
"Sorry. I was reading your bracelets," he explained sheepishly and Blanche looked impressed.
"You can read Latin?" she questioned and Sam nodded.
"Write and speak it too," he confessed and Blanche smiled.
"I'm impressed. My brother made me these: one for every hunt we were ever on together. I've lost some or broken them over the years though." She fell silent and regarded her bracelets with eyes bright with unshed tears.
Dean felt a familiar pang and looked away. He had no idea how he would survive if he ever lost Sam. He'd already proved he couldn't handle life without Sam, selling his soul to a crossroads demon to get his brother back. He wasn't sure if he would manage to survive if he lost him again.
Sam gently touched Blanche's hand, bringing her back to the present with a start as she turned dewy eyes on him.
"You were telling us about Jenny's death?" he prompted, trying not think about those sad gray eyes, and Blanche nodded and breathed deeply to compose herself.
"It happened at a party up at the top of the reservoir. There were a dozen or so kids, fresh out of high school and drunker than drunk. They decided it'd be fun to play a Houdini-like game. And they selected Jenny to go first, even thought she was sober enough to resist, knowing it was dangerous.
"They duct-taped a knife to a glow stick and then threw it into the reservoir. Then, they used the tape on Jenny."
Dean closed his eyes, knowing what came next.
"They taped her feet and hands and threw her into the reservoir after the knife." Blanche shook her head. "She obviously was no Houdini."
Sam looked horrified. "Dean, Jenny is definitely our killer. But why the vampire bite? She's a ghost."
Dean shook his head. "I don't know Sam, but Bobby will or he'll find out." Shoving back his chair, Dean stood ands strode outside, digging his cell phone from his pocket.
"Who's Bobby?" Blanche wanted to know and Sam stood, stacking the paper on the laptop.
"He's the closest thing have to a dad," he answered and Blanche looked sympathetic.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice gentle and Sam grinned at her.
"I'll tell Bobby you said that."
Blanche looked horrified and then laughed along. "That's not what I meant," she protested and Sam sobered slightly.
"I know. Our dad's been dead for over two years now." His hands paused and he gave Blanche a small smile. "Dean misses him a lot, though he won't tell you."
"What about you?" Blanche pressed and Sam drew a deep breath.
"Oh I miss him too. But he and Dean were close." He scooped up the laptop and headed for the stairs, grabbing an apple from the counter on his way past.
"You don't mind right?" he asked, stopping and turning to regard Blanche and the apple
"What?" she looked up and stood, seeing the apple and realizing what he meant. "Oh no, please help yourself. You don't need to ask for anything." She smiled and hugged herself with one arm, absently tracing the bandage over her Dean-inflicted cut. " 'S fine."
Chapter 7