Marked (Supernatural) [Rogue Trilogy] {2}

22. Aliens? Fairies? Angels? Who Knows?

22. Aliens? Fairies? Angels? Who Knows?

"You think this'll pull him out?" I ask Sam as we're in the hunt for Dean's room.

"If this doesn't, I just might have you pull him out by his ear."

I snort a laugh.

Since the whole thing with Charlie, Sam and I have been looking into cases. As for big brother Dean, well, he's been kind of a hermit the past week. Anytime Sam or I get a case, he doesn't come along. So, the younger two Winchesters take the cases while big brother just squats in the bunker.

I rap on the door to Dean's room. I nudge it open, finding him on the floor, reading a massive book. I can't exactly see what he's reading though.

"Hey," I say casually.

Dean looks away from his reading. "Hey."

"You got a sec?" I nod towards Sam.

"Caught a case," says our younger brother, as he hands the tablet over to Dean. "Apparently something is taking people. And leaving their clothes."

"Hmm," Dean says. "About time this gig got an 'R' rating. All right. Why don't you and Jo check it out? I'll hold down the fort."

"Dean, you haven't left the bunker in a week," I say bluntly.

Dean throws the tablet on the bed behind him. "And?"

"And you can just live the rest of your life locked up in this room."

"I don't know. I got three hots and a cot. Could be worse."

"Look, we know you're worried about the Mark," says Sam.

"Yes, Sam. I am. Between what I did to Charlie—"

"Charlie forgave you. How about you forgive yourself?"

"Because I'm not exactly batting one-thousand here, you know?"

"Yeah, we do know that," I say wearily, "but staying locked up in here, sitting on the ground reading the same lore books over and over and over again, it's not helping you. You need to get back in the game for your own good. You can beat this, Dean."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yeah, you're damn right we believe that." I cross my arms.

"You know, you and Sam also believed in the Easter bunny 'til you were almost fourteen and he was twelve."

"I don't think I believed for that long," I say in annoyance.

"No I didn't," Sam insists. "Look, I was eleven."

"And a half," Dean corrects him.

"And a half. Right."

"So, what does that have to do with anything?" I ask Dean.

Dean closes the book he was reading. "Okay."

"Smart choice."

* * *

"And then—then—then there was this bright light," says our homeless witness, "and—bam—the dude's just gone. Nothing left but, uh..."

"Cheap suit and a pair of florsheims?" asks Dean.

"Pretty much."

"You see anyone else?" I ask our homeless man. We're outside the bar where the latest abduction was. This guy we're interviewing, I don't feel pity for him. He smells horrible, and he looks like he's losing a marble or two in his head. You can imagine how scared shitless he looked when three FBI agents came to talk to him. He nearly pissed himself.