Monachopsis

Chapter LXV: Meet Bobby Singer

S1:E22-Devil's Trap

Chills coursed through my body as Meg's words repeated over and over in my head. The receiver clicked as Meg ended the call. The sound was so much louder than it normally was. It cracked in my ears like bones snapping in half. I stood there in shock, my mind struggling to comprehend what I'd just heard.

Dean, however, was spurred into action. He was moving as soon as Meg hung up. "They've got Dad."

Sam watched him with wide eyes. "Meg?" Dean nodded shakily. Sam's bewilderment quickly melted into anger. "What did she say?"

"I just told you, Sammy," Dean said. "Okay. Okay." He wiped a hand over his face, voice lowered to a murmur as he struggled to think. 

He glanced around the room, searching. He approached the bedside table and swiped up the Colt. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn't even thought about it. Shame welled up in me once again. I almost lost our one advantage because I couldn't control myself. 

Dean held the gun in his hand for a moment, then lifted his shirt and tucked it barrel-first into the waistband on his jeans.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam asked. We watched as Dean started gathering up clothes around the room and stuffing them into bags, regardless of who they belonged to.

"We got to go," Dean said as he blindly stuffed one of my bras into Sam's bag.

His words sent a jolt of electricity through my brain, waking me up. I zeroed in on the small pile of bloodied tissues and cloths sitting on the bed next to where I'd been laying: remnants of Dean's homemade medicinal aid.

"Right," I muttered. I gathered the soiled supplies and dumped them into the trash bag hanging from the knob of a kitchenette drawer. I began sweeping away leftover food containers and garbage into the bag along with them before cinching the draws and tying it tight.

Sam approached Dean in his packing, demanding, "Why?"

Dean didn't pause as he answered him. "Because the demon knows we're in Salvation, alright? It knows we've got the Colt. It's got Dad, it almost killed Gray, and it's probably coming for us next."

I double-checked the empty bathroom for any stray clothes or trash. As I shut the door, I swiped our shared sack of toiletries from it's place under the sink.

"We've still got three bullets left; Gray didn't use any," Sam argued. "Let it come."

Dean finished pulling on his leather jacket and snapped at Sam, "Listen, tough guy, we're not ready. Okay? We don't know how many of them are out there. Now, we're no good to anybody dead." I picked up my duffel bag and tossed the toiletry sack to Dean, who caught it without looking away from Sam. "We're leaving, now."

Sam and Dean started the car as I hurried across the darkened motel parking lot to the dumpster. The thick, sickly-sweet stench of refuse only got stronger when I lifted up the lid and tossed in our trash bag. My bruised muscles complained loudly, pulling a strained groan from my lips. 

By the time I turned around, the Impala was pulling up beside me. Dean stopped long enough for me to jump in, and then he gunned the engine. I scrambled for purchase as Dean tore through the quiet Salvation streets like a bat out of hell. It took me a minute before I finally latched myself to the back of the front seat. I clung to it, pressing my body to the vinyl to be as close to Sam and Dean as possible.