Rating: PG-13

Chapter 2 – Banshee

The Impala rumbled up to the mill house, drawing attention of the police and news crews still gathered at the scene. Dean drove slowly by, tossing a casual wave to the deputy who ducked his head to get a look at the driver.

"Just passing by officer…you basic curious bystanders…no we're not planning on breaking into your crime scene in a minute…" Dean muttered softly under his breath, a polite smile on his face.

The deputy gave Dean a mock salute off the brim of his hat in response to the wave, and Dean drove down the road, pulling off at the first bend in the road. They locked the car, and walked back towards the house.

"So, you're saying that this has been going on since the sixties?" Sam shoved his hands into his front jeans pockets and looked sideways at Dean.

"Looks like," Dean shrugged twisting his right hand palm up in a 'what are you gonna do' gesture. "But if that's the case then…"

Sam prompted him with a nod. "Then what."


"What, Dean."

Dean stopped walking, pressing his lips together and looked off over the field that surrounded them and led to the mill house. "I don't know Sammy… I just…" he sighed and rubbed at his neck with his hand. "I got this feeling about Brenna…"

Sam's lips quirked, "A need to get a room feeling, or a grab the crucifix feeling?" he taunted.

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Hilarious." He started walking away.

Sam chuckled, hurrying to catch up. "Wait, man. I was kidding."

Dean stopped again so suddenly Sam almost walked into him. "I think she has some kind of… I don't know… power." He lifted his hands helplessly.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Dean, you're not thinking…"

Dean just looked at him.

Sam shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You're not thinking she's doing this."

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe. I mean… Dad just said witch. He said he'd seen it before. He said it was specifically directed at the Kavanaghs…"

"Yeah, but, Dean, she is a Kavanagh."

Dean's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. "I know that, man, I'm not an idiot."

Sam lifted his hands in mock surrender, saying nothing.

"I'm just telling you what I felt."

Sam watched his brother's face for a moment. As Sam watched, Dean caught his bottom lip in his teeth, worrying it a bit before looking back at his brother.


"Nothing, man. Just wondering if there's something else going on here," Sam said.

"Like what?" Dean said, confused.

"Like…" and then it dawned on Sam. "Like you… like her."

"Shut up," Dean waved a hand at him dismissively and continued to walk to the mill house.

"That's it!" Sam said, thinking back to Dean's reaction to Brenna. He hadn't hit on her immediately like he would have any other good looking woman in his orbit for more than five minutes. Sure, she'd shot him down, but… "You like her."

"Sam, I swear to God you say that one more time I'm going to clock you."

Sam just chuckled and followed him to the tree line at the outskirts of the mill house. They watched, hidden, in silence until they saw the police and news crews clearing away. By the time they were able to duck under the crime scene tape and sprint to the side of the mill house, it was dusk.

"Why are we always sneaking into these places at night?" Sam muttered.

"What, you scared, Francis?"

"Shut up."

They moved stealthily along the outer stone wall, avoiding being seen by the last of the police, and quickly entered through the heavy wooden door at the back. Sam noticed as they entered that the mill wheel was silent and still in the stagnant water, moss hanging off of it in long tendrils. The inside of the mill house was cool and damp, moss clinging to the stone walls there, too. Dean twisted on the small flashlight he always carried, and moved ahead of Sam into the dark recesses of the house.

Sam watched him walk away and a sudden sensation of vertigo overcame him. He put his hand against the cold, damp wall for support and a blinding pain flashed behind his eyes. He couldn't see the room he stood in anymore – he only saw Dean, running from him down a dark hallway lined with mossy stone, face bleeding onto an already bloody shirt, firing behind him with his left hand – why was that so important? – calling back to him to go, don't look back, don't come back for me.

He didn't feel himself fall to his knees in the entry room of the stone mill house, he didn't hear his own cry of fear and pain, he didn't notice the way he clutched at his head to try to press against the harsh throb of pain…he only saw Dean, running, falling to his knees, firing and then…

"Oh, God…" he moaned, clutching his head. He saw a figure swoop over Dean – a figure wrapped in what looked like rags, hair hanging limply down its back, hands with long, lethal nails reaching out for Dean and slicing through his neck effectively silencing his brief cry of pain.

The nausea that rose from watching his brother die was so sudden that Sam almost didn't have time to fall forward to his hands before everything he'd eaten that day came up with a violent heave. When the retching stopped, he was aware of Dean's hand on his back rubbing in slow circles, his voice in his ear speaking softly. He realized suddenly that Dean had been talking low and slow since the vision had slammed into him. His voice had been a constant hum in the background, keeping him from spinning into the gray void that always threatened to engulf him when the visions were this brutal.

"Easy, man. I got you. I got you," Dean was saying, still rubbing his back like he had when they were kids and Sam was sick.

Sam took a breath and sat back on his haunches, then leaned back against the wall, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth, wishing for a drink of water. His head throbbed painfully, but at least he could see around himself now.

"You back with me, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, not opening his eyes.

"Want to tell me what you saw?"

"Same thing," Sam muttered.

"Same thing?" Dean stopped rubbing his back, and rested a sturdy hand on his brother's shoulder. "Me running and shooting something?"

"This time you died," Sam said, his voice shaking on the last word.

"Well, that's a cheery thought."

Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the wetness there so that he could focus on Dean. "It was here, man. You died here."

Dean tilted his head back, absorbing this information. He'd once told Sam it didn't freak him out that had visions. He meant it then. But Sam had now seen him die twice. That did freak him out a bit. But by the look of his little brother at the moment, this was not open and honest hour. He needed to cowboy up and convince Sam that they would get through this.

"Well, you saw it for a reason, right? We just make sure I don't fall down a hole or something," Dean said, attempting levity.

Sam wasn't deterred. "No, it was a… spirit or something. She stabbed you," Sam swallowed convulsively, "through the throat."

"Eew, Sammy. No wonder you tossed your cookies."

Sam paled. "Do you have to talk about it?"

Dean quirked his lips downward. "Sorry I brought it up."

Sam moaned. "Bad choice of words, Dude."

Dean grimaced. "Sorry. Listen, you ready to check the rest of this place out, or have you seen enough?"

Sam thought for a moment. "It wasn't a witch."

"Come again?"

"That killed you – it wasn't a witch. I – I think it was a – banshee."


"Declan!" Dean bellowed as the boys banged through the doors of the bar. "You got some 'splainin' to do!"

The bar was dark and silent. Sam and Dean looked around at the empty room, then back at each other.

"Think they bailed on us?" Sam mused.

"Hardly," Declan said, from a shadowed area to the left of the bar. "Closed out of respect for our time of mourning."

"Riiight," Dean drawled, heading over to the shadow. He'd not missed the slur in Declan's words. The man was apparently choosing to look for his solutions at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson.

"Where's your granddaughter, old man?"

"Brenna's not here."

"Yeah, I got that," Dean said, picking up the bottle and looking at the amount left. He set it back down, flicked a chair around backwards with one hand, and swung his leg across it, resting his arms on the back and facing Declan. Sam stood behind him, watching Declan carefully.

"You been lying to us, Declan," Dean said, his voice soft, low, and dangerous. "We don't like that very much."

"I never thought she'd still be here."

Sam's eyes flicked from the back of Dean's head to Declan's bleary eyes. "What do you mean?"

"She was betrayed and tortured… she vowed revenge, but I never thought she'd…"

Dean's back was tight and he felt his fingers involuntarily curl into fists. "Where is she, Declan?"

Declan blinked blurrily at him. "How the hell should I know, boy? You think if I knew that I'd be sitting here?"

"She's dangerous, Declan," Sam said, his voice soft, as though breaking bad news to the man. "Tell us what spell she's using so that we can stop her from hurting anyone else."

Declan blinked his eyes from Dean up to Sam and then back again. "What in the Sam Hill are you boys talking about?"

Dean cocked his head to the side. "Brenna."

Declan's eyebrows shot up. "Brenna?" He barked out a harsh laugh that caused both boys to jump. "You think Brenna's doing this?"

Sam shifted his feet. "Well, in a way. We figured she's controlling the banshee."

At that word, Declan sobered. Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You knew all along that it was a banshee, didn't you?"

Declan looked down at the table. "A bean-sidhe. A harbinger of death."

Dean's jaw hardened. "Did you know when you called our Dad?"

Declan nodded once. Dean sat back and digested that. John's voicemail had been so…so sure. He sounded like he had every other time he'd sent Dean on hunts, given him orders on what to kill and how. Dean had never asked why – he'd never needed to. Dad said it was evil. Evil dies. End of story. But Declan had known what evil this was and John had not. Dean wasn't sure where to put that, so he decided to ignore it for a moment.

"How do we stop her, Declan?" Sam asked, bring Dean back to the present.

Declan shrugged. "I knew that, think there would be so many cars in my garage?"

Sam looked down at Dean. He knew that banshee's were tied to certain Celtic clans, and he knew that they traditionally foretell death with a horrendous screeching cry, but he never heard of one who killed the way he'd seen his brother die. Still, something told him that that was exactly what he'd seen in his vision. The banshee had killed Dean, and apparently she was responsible for the deaths of the mayor and the sheriff's wife.

Dean wasn't looking at Declan. He wasn't looking at anything. His eyes were fixed to a spot on the table, but his gaze was deep inside.


"He was wrong, Sammy," Dean said softly.


Dean looked back at his brother over his shoulder. "He was wrong."

The look in Dean's eyes shook Sam. For a moment, his big brother who had always been his constant, his anchor, looked rudderless. Dean blinked and the look was gone, but Sam wasn't about to forget it. He turned back to Declan.

"Start at the beginning – you said she was betrayed…"

Before Declan could open his mouth a cry of anger and loud crash sounded from the kitchen. All three men started and turned toward the swinging door behind the bar. A stream of Gaelic in a very loud, very angry female voice carried past the doors. Declan sighed and sunk deeper into his chair. The boys exchanged a look, then looked back at Declan.

He shrugged at them, grabbed the bottle of Jameson and swallowed the last of it in one gulp. "Brenna's back," he rasped.

The yelling grew in volume and Sam winced as he heard something else crash. "What is she saying?"

Declan shook his head. "You don't want to know." His eyes shifted from Dean's eyes to Sam's. "She's angry."

"You're kidding," Dean deadpanned.

Declan pressed quivering lips together. "I never saw it, she says. What good is this power if I never see it happening, she says. I could have warned them, I could have stopped it, she says."

Dean looked up as his brother sank bonelessly into the chair next to him, staring with shock at Declan. "Sammy?"

"Sh-she has visions?" Sam asked through a strangled voice.

Declan shook his head, not noticing Sam's distress. Dean's focus was on his brother; he barely heard Declan's next words.

"She has sight."

"Sammy, you okay, man?" Dean asked, not liking how pale Sam suddenly got.

"What does that mean, she has sight?" Sam whispered, steadying his trembling hands by spreading them flat against the table. He was aware of Dean's intense stare, but ignored him for the moment, trying to get the answer from Declan. "Sight like, she can tell the future?"

Declan pulled a face at him. "She's no gypsy, boy. She's a druid."

At that, Dean looked up away from Sam and to Declan. Another crash sounded from the kitchen, making all of them jump again. "Druid? Didn't they like die out before Christianity?"

Declan shrugged, "For the most part. But you can't erase destiny. There are some still around. Practicing or not, they still have power. Brenna can see people. You can't lie to her. She sees who you really are, not who you tell yourself you are." He looked up at Dean.

"Arrgh!" Another crash and then the silence that followed was eerie. Sam looked over his shoulder at the doors to the kitchen, expecting to see her come in to the empty bar, but there was no movement.

"Think she's okay?"

Declan raised a brow. "You want to be the one that goes in there to find out?"

Sam meekly shook his head. Dean chewed his lip for a moment. "Sam, there anything in Dad's journal about banshee's?"

Sam shrugged. "I'd have to look."

"You wait here, I'll go get it."

"I'll come with you," Sam offered, starting to stand.

"No, wait here," Dean said, still not liking the pallor of his brother's features. "I'll be right back."


As he stepped out of the dark bar into the darker night, Dean took a breath. The air was still, and cool. He glanced up. They were far enough from any city that the stars blanketed the sky. When he was a kid he'd loved nights like this. He felt powerful and the future looked…possible. He started to turn to the motel room, when the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket made him jump.

He dug it out, flipped it open, and almost stopped breathing. Dad.

"Dad?" he said, his voice sounding young and uncertain in his own ears.


"God, Dad, it's good to hear from you. You okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean. Listen, you have to get Declan away from there. The witch is coming after him next."

Dean allowed himself a moment to wonder how his Dad got his information before replying. "Dad, it isn't a witch."

"What are you talking about? Yes it is, Son."

"No, Dad, listen. It's a banshee. We just found out tonight."

"A banshee's a type of witch, Dean."

It was said with such a tone of contempt that Dean outwardly cringed.

"Listen, I've been doing some digging. I know who it is."

"You do?"

"Declan's granddaughter, Brenna. She comes from a line of druid queens. They have powers, visions. They can read minds, move objects."

"But, Dad, aren't banshee's…spirits? I mean, aren't they…dead?"

John's sigh was audible over the cell. Dean pressed his lips against his teeth, berating himself for questioning his Dad.

"Listen, Dean, she's dangerous. She needs to be stopped. She isn't human, Son, not completely. Her visions will give her an advantage. Attack her during the day and –"

"Dad, I think you're wrong on this. I don't think she's – "

"Listen to me, Son. She is evil. You do your job, you hear me? Do. Your. Job."

The click on the other end of the phone echoed in Dean's ear. He stared at his phone for a full minute before clicking it shut. His Dad kept talking about Brenna's visions. What was he going to say when he found out about Sam? Dean actually trembled a little. Was the world so black and white for John that Sam might be considered supernatural, too? That he might be considered… dangerous? Evil even?

A crash from the garage startled him. He heard Brenna's voice following, and then another crash. Apparently, her swath of destruction had moved on to the garage. Dean forgot about getting the journal and turned toward the garage. He rounded the corner and reared back in surprise as a careless toss of a tire iron narrowly missed grazing his skull.

"Whoa! Easy," he exclaimed.

Brenna whipped around, her curls bouncing wildly, her face colored red from anger, and her eyes… Dean had to control a startled glance at her eyes. The irises had gone so wide that there was barely any white showing and her pupils were dilated to match. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he was looking at the eyes of a bird of prey.

"What are you doing here?" she spat at him.

Dean held his hands up, palms outward in an 'I come in peace' gesture. "Thought I'd see what the commotion was about."

Brenna turned from him, grabbed a wrench and hurled it across the garage with a might grunt. "The commotion," she said, as the wrench hit one of the remaining windows in the Chevy Nova, shattering it, "is me trying to get back at the universe."

"Dealt a bad hand were you?"

She whirled on him again, watching as he cautiously got closer to her. "What, and you weren't?"

Dean stopped moving. "What are you talking about?"

"Think I don't know who you were just on the phone with? What he told you, no, ordered you to do?"

Dean went cold. "We're not talking about me."

"Why not, Dean?"

"I'm not the one out here throwing wrenches."

She put her hands on her hips. "Why not, Dean?"

He pulled his eyebrows together. "What do you mean why not?"

"Why aren't you angry? Why are you breaking things? Why don't you let yourself lose control?" She narrowed her eyes at him, the size and color easing back to the normal yellow-green he had become used to seeing. "You're afraid."

Dean took a step back. "Hey, I just came out here to see –"

"You came out here to see if your Dad was right." She said, stepping closer to him, barely three feet away. "You came out here because you're afraid he's wrong."

Dean grimaced. "I'm not –"

"Yeah, you are. You don't know what to do if your Dad is wrong."

Dean's eyes hardened and he took a step closer to her, leaning in, his face inches from hers. His voice became a low growl. "Look, I know you think you can see me, but I am telling you now. Back. The. Hell. Off."

She didn't move. "You're awfully quick to accept that I have the sight."

"Honey, the things I've seen, fought, and killed in my lifetime would freeze your blood. A little insight isn't going to shake me." His chin tipped down and his dangerous eyes looked at her through his lashes.

"Except if it's to see inside you. Even your brother can't do that."

If Brenna hadn't been so blinded by her own fury, she would have trembled at the sudden coldness in Dean's eyes. "You leave him out of this."

"Why, Dean? It's all I see when I look at you. I look at your eyes and you don't reflect back at me – it's just your Dad and Sam."

He pulled his eyebrows together. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Where are you, Dean?"

A muscle in his jaw jumped and his lips parted to toss back a retort when she spoke again. "He doesn't trust you, is that it?"

Dean stared at her. "Sam trusts me."

"Not Sam."

"You don't know what it is you're seeing. You're just catching glimpses. You can't see the whole picture," Dean said through clenched teeth, his shoulders rolling as though he were preparing to fight.

Brenna pressed her lips together, then reached up and clasped the side of his face with her right hand. He gasped at the touch, tried to pull away, and found he couldn't move. Her palm was hot against his cheek, her fingers curling around his jaw. Her thumb rested just below his left eye, and he felt her caress the scar there courtesy of a wendigo claw when he was eighteen.

Brenna blinked. It was if suddenly she saw three of him. She saw the confident, cocky, badass, seducer of women who relieved men of their money at games of pool and women of their phone numbers soon after. She saw that image he'd fabricated super-imposed on top of a warrior - a fierce protector who would not hesitate to give his life for those he loved… and he loved them completely. Then she saw the boy. A lonely, sad, frightened boy who never once had anyone ever tell him that it was okay to need.

"What…" he began, but couldn't seem to go on.

She saw all three Dean's at once and as they shimmered in his eyes she felt herself leaning forward as though falling into a deep green pool. Desire warred with fear and battled need inside of her. She suddenly wanted him - more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. She knew she could have power over him, but she didn't want to use it. She wanted him to see her.

"Dean," her whisper caught in her throat and she watched his eyes widen slightly, his head tilt imperceptibly to the right as though trying to listen for a far-off sound. "Trust me."

His eyebrows pulled together then and his eyes grew wary. She knew he only truly trusted one person in the world. Sam was it. He didn't even honestly trust John like he did his brother. Though both had left him, Brenna saw that John's departure felt to Dean like a betrayal, while Sam's had just felt too soon. Sam was his world, and she was asking him to open his boundaries. She knew she was asking him what might be an impossible task. His body was tense, his fists clenched at his side, and she could feel the muscle in his jaw bunch beneath her hand.

"I won't hurt you."

"That's not what worries me," Dean muttered through clenched teeth.

With a monumental effort, he took a step back from her, breaking her hold on him, and allowing her hand to slide slowly from his face. Her fingers trailed lightly across his lips as he pulled his face back and away.

"Then what does?"

She felt his energy rippling off of him in waves. She stood as still as she watched him slowly drag his eyes from the ground to her face, his long lashes shadowing the green of his eyes. His lips twitched once and she heard his breath hitch in his chest and suddenly he was standing directly in front of her and his hands were in her hair. As his mouth descended onto hers, she instinctively reached up and grasped his forearms. Felt the muscles beneath his skin roll as his fingers knotted in her curls.

His lips were soft, as she'd known they would be. He kissed her slow at first, then when she willingly responded, he opened his mouth slightly and she brazenly took his bottom lip between her own, tugging it deeper into her mouth. She felt him tense, and she knew he was about to pull away. She darted her tongue quickly across that lip and heard an almost primal groan deep from within him. Without releasing her head, he pulled his face from hers and looked at her. His eyes seemed almost lost.

A muscle flinched in his jaw as he continued to look at her, suddenly aware of their closeness. His right leg was between hers, and his hands were still fisted at the back of her head. Their bodies touched from knee to waist and only the need to look at each others' faces parted them from there. Brenna's height made it easy to look directly into her eyes without tilting his head down much and her slight, powerful frame balanced him in a way he found...disturbing.

The need to kiss her had surprised him. He had to walk away from her, he knew that. His whole body screamed at him to leave, but as he turned from her something inside of him screamed louder to stay - so loud in fact that he was surprised Sam hadn't heard something back at the bar. That kiss had rocked him. And now...now he didn't want to let her go.

"Are you doing this to me?" he asked, his voice sounding strange and hoarse to his ears. Strained as though the scream he'd imagined emanating from his body earlier had been real. "I don't… can't tell if this is us, or…"

"It's just us, Dean. I promise you. Please... please trust me. '"

He wanted to, God he wanted to.

"I'm not what he thinks I am. I'm not evil, Dean," she whispered.

The mention of his father was like a blast of cold air on his heated skin. He bared his teeth and pulled his lips back in a growl of frustration. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly and he felt his heart pick up speed. He slowly uncurled his fingers as though letting go of the tenuous hold of a life line and stepped back, break connection.

"This is… I – I can't…" He seemed to have lost the ability to complete a sentence. He heard his father's voice in his head. Listen to me, Son. She is evil. You do your job, you hear me? Do. Your. Job. He heard himself telling Sam Our job is to hunt evil. And he knows that. So he sends us to where he finds the evil he can't get to. Because he knows we'll do our job. He looked at Brenna, an almost helpless need filling him.

He wanted to kiss her again. To rid himself of this need for her. To plunge into her and ease the ache that had been growing from the moment she'd walked past him carrying those heavy trays. It made him angry. She stood absolutely still, not one foot away, and watched him. He didn't want to feel like this... to feel anything for her, dammit. If his father was right…. if his father was right, he had to destroy her. But…what if? What if, Dad?

She seemed to sense that he was about to pull away. "Dean, don't -"

"Brenna, I swear to God, if I don't...If I don't go now... I can't..."

She watched his eyes change from wary, to impassioned, to afraid in the matter of seconds and her heart broke a little for him. She knew that no one had held Dean in a long, long time. She knew he'd been with his share of women, but she also knew that for him that was simply a release. It wasn't real, anymore than the image he project to the world was real. The hunter/protector was real and the little boy was real. She reached her hand out, noticed that it trembled slightly as she did so, and put it against his cheek once more. This time it wasn't to see him. This time…she just wanted to touch him.

"Dean... I won't hurt you. I promise you that," she fisted her free hand and clutched it to her chest. "I know you are afraid -"

At that his head tilted to the right again and his eyes hardened. She didn't let it stop her. She kept her hand in place on his cheek, rubbing the soft skin under his eye.

"-of letting yourself feel something for me. I-"

And here she faltered, breaking eye contact and looking at the open space over his shoulder. "-I need you to believe me. I need you to know that I'm not what you're after."

It was her touch, he realized. No one ever really touched him. Grabbed him, shoved him, moved him out of the way, but never touched just out of their own free will. Her hand was warm against his face, her thumb stroking the soft skin under his eye. This was not the way he allowed women to touch him - because no matter what the women he bedded thought they were always touching him by permission. This...this was different. This was invasive as well as craved.

He lifted his hands and purposefully put them on her shoulders, pushing her away from him with the finality of a choice rather than an order. The voice of John Winchester – the voice he could always hear above the cacophony of battle – roared in his head that this was wrong. That she was wrong. But, what if, Dad?

He dropped his hands and stepped away from her. Part of him was afraid that his Dad was right – that maybe by letting her go he was somehow putting Sam in danger. And protecting Sam was all he had – he knew nothing else…he was nothing else. But as he took another step back, his eyes lingered on hers, then traced down to her lips. Something about her face spoke only of honesty, of a gift of power that she hadn't asked for, and that she fought to control. A gift like Sam's.

Without another word, he turned away from her, and noticed that it was like stepping away from the warmth of a campfire into the dark of the night. He walked out of the garage, and felt something inside of him crack at the sound of her soft sob.


He opened the door to their motel room half expecting to see Sam waiting for him. The room was empty, though, and he remembered he'd left Sam pale and shaking sitting across from Declan. He ran a weary hand over his face. How long had he been gone? Any longer and he was sure Sam would come looking for him.

He went to his duffle and dug through it until he found his Dad's journal. Just the site of the worn leather binding made his stomach clench with a familiar fear. The only thing that Dean Winchester truly feared was letting his brother or his father down. Letting them down by not protecting them, by not following through as ordered, by just not doing it right.

"This is one fucked up case, Dad," he said softly to the book. When did things stop being clear? When did the bad guy start to have something in common with his brother? When did evil start having porcelain skin and freckles?

He stared at the book with sightless eyes, thinking about what they had: a banshee killing without a banshee's usual M.O., a descendant of druid queens, a drunk Irishman that their father insisted they protect, two dead people, two crazy people, and a vision about him dying in a mill house.

"A whole lotta nothing," he muttered. "And now I'm talking to myself. C'mon, Dean."

He turned and exited the motel, heading back to Sam, and, hopefully, answers. He had to turn everything else off. He had to. He had to just focus on doing what his Dad – who never called unless he needed them to hunt something…who sent them into danger, but wouldn't tell them where he was…who never bothered to find out what had happened to them in Lawrence…who didn't know that mom's spirit had saved them, saved Sammy again…who didn't know he'd battled a Reaper…who didn't know that he'd almost lost…who wouldn't fucking LISTEN to what he was trying to tell him about this case – told him to do.

With a feral growl he whirled and slammed the journal against the wall of the building. "FUCK YOU, Dad." He shouted to the night.

"And here I thought throwing wrenches was effective," her voice came from behind him with a quiet lilt. He turned quickly and saw her standing about five feet from him, leaning against the outside railing that ran the length of the building, as if she were waiting for him.

With one harsh intake of breath, he dropped the journal on the ground, stepped close to her in one motion, wrapped his arms around her slim waist and pulled her up against him, crushing his mouth down on hers. This time it was she who fisted her hands at the back of his head.

He turned her and in two steps had her back up against the wall of the building. The stars from the brilliant sky reflected in her eyes when he pulled his mouth away to take a breath. He didn't even bother to pause long enough to see if she wanted this. He knew. He just knew. Her hands were gripping his neck. He reached up and grasped her wrists, lifting her arms above her head and holding them there. He deepened his kiss, finally sucking in that bottom lip of hers.

He wasn't close enough.

"You're not close enough," she panted. His entire body was pressed up against hers, his leg between hers, holding her up. He reaching up with one hand behind his shoulders and pulled the grey T-shirt off over his head in one motion. She bit her bottom lip in pure pleasure watching this very natural, very male motion. He tossed the shirt on the ground. It covered the journal. He grabbed either side of her face, lifting her mouth to his and devoured.

God his mouth was amazing, she thought. Even when he was cracking wise and wouldn't seem to still his smart comebacks, she'd found it fascinating to watch his mouth. He expressed so much with just a twitch of a corner or by pressing his lips together. And now those lips were pressed on hers.

She pressed her palms to his chest when he pulled away for another breath. For a moment he looked worried, and she didn't know why until her fingers crossed the first scar. His green eyes rested on her face as she trailed her fingers lower on his chest she felt more. Two, three, five... Her eyebrows pulled together and she reached up to trail her fingers down his back. One long one, two smaller ones... His body was covered in scars. She leaned back against the wall again and looked at him. Looked him in the eye. His tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips and he simply watched her for a reaction.

"You are the hunter, Dean. Each one of these scars means that someone you love is still alive," she whispered. It's the ones that I can't feel that worry me, she thought.

He lowered his face to hers and brushed a soft kiss across her lips, teasing her mouth up toward him and relishing the feel of her as she arched her neck up to get closer to him. His hands moved to her waist, his fingers brushed the bare skin as he lifted her shirt. He breathed in her gasp of pleasure as his palms found the flat of her stomach, his fingers curling around to her back.

He ignored the hairs on his neck and the sudden ringing in his ears and the constant voice inside that chanted check on Sam, where is Sam. He focused only on Brenna, her mouth, her scent, her trembling breath.

And because of that, he never heard the sigh of the banshee's breath. And he never felt her nails stab through his shoulder, wrenching him viciously away from Brenna. He only knew her kiss, her breath, then darkness, and silence.