Reckless [Dean Winchester]

42. Indianapolis

"Mm, not bad for a first attempt."

"Shouldn't we be armed up to our eyeballs, just in case?"

"You have doubt in our methods?"

"Just want to cover all the bases," I say.

"Well, for close encounters."

I look down, feeling my familiar-almost-not-familiar-now shank. "I've been forgetting that a lot lately."

"It's because you know you're safe with us."

I look through my lashes, smiling abashedly. "Or I've just forgotten it a lot." My fingers curl around my old weapon while his fingers encase my hand.

I jump as the phone in Sarah's room goes off. Dean lets my hand go and puts it on speaker.

"Crowley," he greets the King of Hell bitterly.

"Five...Four...Trios...Zwei...uno."

"Sarah!" Sam shouts. I run the minute Sarah drops to the floor, choking. I'm hovering just as bad as Sam is. Hovering but having no idea what to do. "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!"

"Sarah!" I squeak. "Can you hear us? Sarah!"

"She's dying, and there's nothing you can do about it," Crowley leers through the phone.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" I roar.

"Son of a witch, actually. My mommy taught me a few tricks."

"It's a spell," Sam realizes. "Find the hex bag."

I get off my feet and aid Dean in tearing the room apart, searching for the little bag that's slowly killing Sarah. Dean tackles the bed while I flip through the drawers and under the bed, in the bathroom.

"I thought of sending in a few of my bruisers, really let them go to town. But then, well, trial one was kill a Hellhound. Trial two was rescue a soul from the pit. So, from here on, I'm gonna keep everything Hell-related—demons, et cetera—away from you. Safe side and all that—plus, I just thought it seemed fitting. From what I understand, Sammy took that bird's breath away."

If Crowley were here, I would love to punch him in the throat. He knows what the third trial is. Too bad he's not stupid.

Sarah's choking noises don't help our search become successful. I'm becoming frantic, feeling the panic settle in my chest. I look around wildly, trying to figure out what else Dean and I haven't covered yet. He's currently ripping apart the bed, tearing off the sheets. I aid and slice open the pillows, exploding feathers everywhere.

"What's the line? 'Saving people, hunting things—the family business.' Well, I think the people you save, they're how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, the pain you've caused—the one thing that allows you to sleep at night, the one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, bloody heroes!"

"Hey, hey!" I hear Sam panic. "You're gonna be okay."

"Come on, come on," I whisper desperately. I look at Dean, and I tear open the mattress next with my shank.

"Sarah? They're your life's work, and I'm going to rip it apart piece by piece because I can, because you can't stop me, and because when they're all gone, what will you have left?"