Brothers Keep Her

"Get the Salt!"

"You think something is using me to get to you?" you ask as they usher you into their room at the Ramblin' Inn motel. The low number of cars in the parking lot tells you this is no four-star place. It probably isn't even two-star.

Dean flips the light switch and tosses an army green duffle bag onto the floor in the corner of the room. The walls are covered in the gaudiest wallpaper you have ever seen, and the color scheme reminds you of that sitcom set in the seventies you used to watch. It's not pretty, but at least you're inside and out of the chilly air.

Sam closes and bolts the door behind you. You stand off to the side awkwardly rubbing your marked hand. "Here," he says to you. "Let's get that cleaned up." He gently leads you by your elbow to the other bed and sits you on the ugly green chenille duvet.

Dean pulls his blazer off and loosens his tie on his way to the little refrigerator as Sam digs through another, smaller duffle bag. The refrigerator door gives Dean a bit trouble before the sound of clinking bottles cuts through the room.

Neither one has answered your question. You know they're avoiding it, but why? Sam catches you staring at the letters on the back of your hand and waves at the beer Dean tries to give him.

"Oh, come on!" Dean balks. "You don't want a beer, now?"

Sam glares at Dean over your head.

"Fine." Dean slams the bottles on the table in the corner of the room and picks up his blazer.

Sam stands up. "Where are you going?"

"To get food. I'm starving." Before Sam can get another word in, the door slams and Dean is gone.

Sam sighs and tucks his hair behind his ears before he sits back down beside you. "Does it hurt?" He takes the bloody paper towels from you as he turns your hand toward him.

You nod. "Not as much. It's better." You both look to the door at the sound of the car starting. When it pulls away, you clear your throat. "Your brother doesn't like me."

Sam looks up. "No. It's not that. It's just... complicated."

You study his face; you've not been this close to him before and it stirs something in you. Tries to, anyway. It's hard to think about happy things when Professor McFarlane ... well.

"We have a lot going on. We've been through a lot. Dean's just... particular about who we trust. It's nothing personal." You're surprised when the liquid he pours out of a little glass bottle turns out to be just water. Who carries tiny bottles of water around? Then he picks up a wad of cotton and douses it with peroxide. You clench your jaw at the initial sting, watching closely as he clears the drying blood away. You're not bleeding much anymore except for a few tiny red beads, so he presses a clean towel on it. "Hold this," he says, and you obey while he fishes through his first aid supplies again.

"What's happening, Sam?" you ask, on the verge of tears. It's too much. All of it. You can't even deal with horror movies, let alone this. Yesterday you were just a barista at a moderately popular coffee shop by night and college student by day.

He clasps your hand between his and looks at you with puppy eyes. "I don't know, yet. But I'll find out. We'll stop it. I promise."

You search his face. Can he really make a promise like that?

After he wraps your hand in fresh gauze with a little antibiotic ointment, he cleans everything up and digs his laptop out of his backpack. He opens it up then notices your shiver. "Are you cold? Is it normal cold or freak cold, like the ER?" He holds out his hands as if to feel the change in temperature.

"Normal, I guess," you say, only because that panic hasn't seized your body this time.

"And we didn't pick up any clothes for you. Wow. I'm so sorry. When he gets back with the car, we can go." Those soft eyes would melt you if not for the hell you can't get out of your head.

You nod and look at the floor.

"Um... you hungry?" Sam loosens his tie and slides it from his neck.

"Not really."

"Okay. I understand. I'm going to change out of this. I'll be right back. Don't let anyone in, not even Dean, until I'm out of the bathroom."

His warning is foreboding, but you nod. What else can you do? Not even Dean? Why would he say that?

Sam disappears into the bathroom with his bag, leaving you on the edge of the bed alone. You cross your arms tightly over your chest, but it hurts your hand, so you drop your hands to your lap. It's eerily quiet in the room, even with the low sounds Sam makes from the bathroom. You look around at their things scattered between the tables, chairs, and beds, enthralled by the mysterious life these men live.

You're staring at the goosebumps on your legs when the lights flicker in the room. You snap your eyes to the lamp on the nightstand between the beds as the commotion in the bathroom halts for a moment. Trying to convince yourself it was just a normal flicker, you watch it like a hawk, waiting. You don't trust it. You don't even realize you've stiffened and clenched your fists so tight that your fingernails are drawing blood until Sam startles you when he opens the bathroom door.

He runs to your side when he sees you jump and whip around to look at him. "You okay? What happened?"

You look back at the lamp on the nightstand, but it does nothing. A thousand icy fingers trace your spine as you turn to him and shake your head. Sam crouches in front of you dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, and the black tattoo on his chest catches your eye. You shiver again.

Sam rubs your arms, then drops his bag on the bed. He pulls out a hooded sweatshirt. "It's wrinkled, and I've worn it a few times, but it's mostly clean," he says with one eyebrow arched. You realize he's not sure how you'll react to the offering.

The bite of the cold worsens, so you reach for the shirt, offering the best smile you can, which isn't much. As you pull it over your head, Sam hangs his suit in the closet. The pleasant smell surprises you; you half-expected that public bathroom soap smell you remember from your first encounter. Instead, your nose finds the subtle hint of Sam's cologne. It's comforting. It's two sizes too big, but comfortable nonetheless.

He tugs a gray t-shirt on as the lights flicker again, and he's by your side in an instant. This time, the flickering doesn't stop. With one arm around you, Sam digs into his bag. You cower into him, your eyes darting from lamp to light and back again. "Take this," he says, shoving a small chain into your hand. He rummages through his bag again. This time he pulls out a can of salt, cracks it open, and starts pouring it in a circle on the floor. "Get in," he orders, pulling you off the bed.

You do as he says. The flickering grows more violent. You want to know what the hell it is, but then again, maybe you don't. Knees locked, waves of tremors roll through you. When all the kitchenette cabinets slam at once, you yelp and cover your ears. Why did Sam make the circle so damn small? You want to curl up on the floor in a ball and hide, but there isn't enough room for that.

Sam stands in front of you with a sawed-off shotgun. You don't know how a gun is going to stop whatever this is, but he's been at this for a long time, so you trust that he knows what he's doing. "Dean, pick up your damn phone!" he shouts into his cell. "We've got trouble!" Frustrated, he shoves his phone into his back pocket.

The beds start convulsing on their own and you think your heart is going to climb right out of your throat. "Sam!"

"I got you!" he yells over the banging headboards.

The lamp on the nightstand rises into the air and hovers for a moment. You can't believe your eyes. Next thing you know, it's hurling toward you. You don't have time to think.

Lucky for you, Sam is quick and smashes it to the floor in the knick of time.

And just like that, everything stops.

You can't move. You can't blink. You can't ease your harried breaths. Neither of you let your guard down for another few moments, and it's not until Sam says quietly, "I got you," that you break.