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loverslantern · 8 months ago

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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: Dean gets a second chance to right a wrong from his past when they get a mysterious tip from his father about a case they'd worked years ago.

Warnings: Cannon violence

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred

Word Count: 9,145

Something Wicked

(Master list, Prev. Ch, Next Ch, Outfit Board)

The boys bicker back and forth rapidly. “Yeah. You probably missed something, that’s what,” Dean argues. Nothing truly brings out an argument like their Dad and his directions. “Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers, and I couldn’t find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?” Sam spits back.

“Yeah, I double-checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important Sammy.” “Well, I'm telling you I looked and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something I don't know what.” “Well maybe he's going to meet us there,” Dean suggests. However, I thought it was pretty clear their Dad didn’t want to interact with them again until it was all over, safety and such. “Yeah. Cause he's been so easy to find up to this point.” “You're a real smart ass you know that?.... Don't worry I'm sure there's something in Fitchburg worth killing.” “Yeah? What makes you so sure?” “Cause I'm the oldest, which means I'm always right,” Dean smirks.

“Dude, no it doesn’t,” I chime in, “That holds no merit.”

“It totally does,” he retorts, “And I’d know, I’m the oldest.”

“Yeah, by two years,” I point out, catching his eye in the mirror, “So don’t get ahead of yourself there, cowboy.” But he just shrugs, that smug smile on his lips, “Those years make all the difference. ‘Cause guess what….” he pauses, “I’m still older.”

A slight breeze rustles through the trees. It’s chillier today than it had been the last couple of days. Gloomier too. The clouds seem to swallow the sky with a gray hue. The town is bare and quiet as if the clouds had drawn them away. Even the playground is empty.

A warm drink is nudged into my hands, pulling me from my thoughts as my chilled fingers find their way around the to-go cup that Dean settles there. He leans his head down, his eyes catch mine before he releases the cup into my possession. His green eyes are serious, eyebrows pinched together just slightly, a silent question. A small smile breaks on my lips as I give a gentle nod, confirming I’m okay. I’m unsure why he decided to check up on me but God is he lovely regardless of how simple the action was. “Well…the waitress thinks the local Freemasons are up to something sneaky but other than that no one’s heard about anything freaky going on,” Dean informs, joining our leaning against the Impala.

I hum in recognition, taking a careful sip of the hot liquid encased in my cup, “Today’s not a holiday, is it?” I ask.

“No,” Dean answers, “Why?”

“Look at the time,” Sam points out, seemingly picking up on my point too. The older Winchester lifts his wrist up, looking at his watch, “Ten after four….” his eyes follow to where Sam directs. A lone girl in a pink sweater and pigtails climbs on a bare playground. No other children around, hell, no other adults around except for the woman who must be the young girl's guardian sitting on a bench. “…School’s out isn’t it?” Dean asks, connecting the dots.

“Mhm,” I hum, “But where are the kids?”

“This place should be crawling with them,” Sam adds.

Dean takes that as his sign to step forward. He places a hand on my upper arm, nodding his head in the direction of the barren park, silently beckoning me to join him. I comply, moving with him across the dead street to the park. Carefully, we approach the woman who sits on a park bench, her magazine coming into view. “Sure is quiet out here,” Dean announces, gaining the woman’s attention. She looks up from her reading, “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“What happened?” I ask softly, knowing it has to be something serious for it to be like this. “You know, kids getting sick, it’s a terrible thing,” she says, a frown pulling on the corner of her mouth. Yet, the way her eyes become locked on her child, the way something like worry flashes in her eyes hints this is more than the common cold or flu. “How many?” Dean asks, his voice rather solemn.

“Just five or six but serious, hospital serious. A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious. They think it’s catching,” she explains. And there it is, the likely reason why we’re here.

The Hospital reeks of, well, hospital. The clean yet almost sickly smell and the bright fluorescent lights wouldn’t suggest any foul play, or that a horrible sickness was hospitalizing kids. I’m not sure if I want this to be our sort of case or not, on one hand, if it is then we can solve it and maybe fix this mess but if it isn’t then it’s on the doctors to think of something to help, except if they can’t; then we’re all helpless. “Dude,” Sam hits his brother's shoulder, “Dude, I am not using this ID,” he complains even though we’re already here, already clad in professional clothes. “Why not?” Dean counters.

“‘Cause it says bikini inspector on it!” Sam grumbles, eyes fluttering every which way to make sure no one heard him. He holds up the ID in question, his little photo next to a normal name, and an insane job position. I haven’t a clue where Dean even produced this from. “Do you want me to use mine?” I ask, ready to save him the trouble and embarrassment.

“Please,” he answers, shoulders deflating.

“No, no,” Dean pauses us, “He’s a big boy he can do it himself. She won’t look that close, alright?” he grins, “Hell, she won’t even ask to see it. It’s all about confidence Sammy.” He takes his brother's shoulders, spins him around, and lightly pushes him towards the receptionist's desk. I give Dean a pointed look, “That was just cruel,” I say. But, he just smiles that stupid shit-eating grin. Far more amused than he ought to be.

It’s hardly ten seconds since Sam is at the reception desk when he holds up his ID for the lady. His brother snickers beside me and doesn’t let up even when Sam throws him a dirty look over his shoulder. If anything it worsens his laughing fit, having to drag a hand down his mouth. Soon after Sam is walking towards us with his classic bitchface and a slight pink hue on his cheeks, “See. I told you it would work,” Dean grins wildly.

Sam huffs, shaking his head as he glares daggers at his brother, “Follow me. It’s upstairs.”

****

An older man with black hair and tired eyes, the doctor, leads us down a corridor, “Well, thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker,” Dean says. And I have to admit the doctor’s name reminds me so much of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, even if there isn’t any correlation. “Well, I’m glad you guys are here. I was just about to call the CDC myself,” the Doctor informs, “How’d you find out anyways?”

“Oh some GP, I forget his name, he called Atlanta and, uh, he must’ve beat you to the punch,” Dean lies seamlessly. Maybe it is all about confidence, or maybe he just has too much practice.

“So, you say you got six cases so far?” Sam asks, getting right to the heart of it.

“Yeah, five weeks. At first, we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia,” he informs, all doctor words for typical or common pneumonia, “Not that newsworthy. But now…”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“The kids aren’t responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren’t doing their job. It’s like their bodies are….” his voice grows softer, “wearing out.”

“Have you started exploring other ideas?,” I point out, crossing my arms across my chest. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to answer as a petite brunette nurse approaches with some paperwork, “Excuse me, Dr. Hyecker,” she says, handing him the forms.

“To answer your question,” he says, peering up from the forms, “We are trying to explore other possibilities but I’ve never seen something this severe before.”

“And the way it spreads…” the nurse adds, sighing, “that’s a new one for me.”

“How so?” I ask.

“It works its way through families. But only the children, one sibling after another,” she explains and it only affirms that this must be our sort of case. As far as I’m aware no sickness works like that, nor should. Sickness doesn’t target certain age groups, which is not to say that certain age groups can’t be more susceptible to illness. But, with six cases which is likely more than two families the statistical chance of the parents not being affected lowers. And the fact that it almost strategically moves from sibling to sibling…It has to be our case. “‘You mind if we interview a few of the kids?” Dean asks.

“They’re not conscious,” the nurse answers.

“None of them?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised in shock.

“No,” she says simply, a frown pulling on her lips. It only makes this all the more concerning.

“Can we, uh, can we talk to the parents?” Dean tries instead.

“Well, if you think it’ll help,” Dr. Hydecker responds a little strangely. Why wouldn’t it help?

“Yeah. Who was your most recent admission?” Dean asks.

****

The man in front of us slouches in his chair, his eyes tired and filled with so much sorrow and fear. He holds his jacket between his legs, his hands fidgeting, and that expression seems to burn itself into my mind. The kind of look reserved for parents who worry for their kids, sick or not. “I should get back to my girls,” he insists, his voice thick with emotion.

“We’re really sorry about this all, and having to put you through this questioning. We’ll make it quick I promise,” I say softly, offering sympathy that would not fix the situation he’s going through. “Now, you say Mary is the oldest?” Sam asks, matching the solemn mood of the hospital.

“Thirteen,” he confirms.

“Okay. And she came down with it first, right?” Sam asks, “And then…”

“Bethany, the next night.”

“Within 24 hours?” Sam pushes.

“I guess,” he shrugs and it’s apparent he’s going through too much to truly focus on this conversation, “Look, I, uh, I already went through all this with the doctor.”

“Just a few more questions if you don’t mind,” Dean urges, “How do you think they caught pneumonia? Were they out in the cold, anything like that?”

“No. We think it was an open window,” he answers. Yet, I do not attempt to suggest that it isn’t just pneumonia at play let alone that it’s unlikely that an open window by itself could cause something like this. But I’m not a doctor. “Both times?” Dean questions.

“The first time, I— I don’t really remember but the second time for sure. And I know I closed it before I put Bethany to bed,” he replies.

“So you think she opened it?” Sam asks.

“It’s a second-story window with a ledge. No one else could’ve,” he puts it plainly, a sharp edge to his voice.

****

Back down the corridor, we go, leaving the father to worry over his kids. God, this situation was so messed up. “You know this might not be anything supernatural. It might just be pneumonia,” Sam points out.

Immediately I’m shaking my head, “I don’t know for sure if this is supernatural but it certainly isn’t just pneumonia. Speaking of which, I don’t like the doctor.”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“Well, he’s either a sucky doctor or just not well-equipped for this case. I don’t know why he’s not already exploring new options or calling in experts when the conditions are worsening and they aren’t reacting to antibiotics. Let alone why he’s not doing more testing. I get not wanting to do anything intrusive to kids this young and with how low their white blood cells are, but, God, we’ve been here less than 30 minutes and I get the feeling that nothing is really being done to help these poor kids.”

“Someone’s passionate,” Dean remarks. I hit his arm, “Of course I am. Is this not all…I don’t know…strange?”

“I don’t know, but Dad sent us down here for a reason. I think we might be barking up the right tree,” Dean answers.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Sam says.

“What?”

“That guy we just talked to? I’m betting it’ll be a while before he goes home,” he elaborates.

Bethany’s room is everything you’d expect a young girl's room to be, from clothes peeking out of drawers to the various stuffed animals on her bed to the doll house in the corner. To think this girl was now lying in a bleak hospital, completely drained of all the color and life that’s presented here. I’m still not sure if I want this to be our sort of case, even if by now I’m mostly convinced it is. If it is just some sickness then maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to help. All I’d need is some time with the patients to heal them periodically. Admittedly it’d take longer than the average hunt did but at least it would feel more productive or helpful. In the meantime though I guess it was nice to be in normal clothes again. “You got anything over there?” Sam asks from one corner of the room. I get up from the floor, fixing the carpet back in place after checking beneath the rug and bed–the sort of things you just sort of have to double-check when your job is in fact about hunting the things that go bump in the night, “No, nothing here.”

“Nah, nothing,” Dean says too, waving around his EMF.

“Yeah, me neither,” Sam sighs. I move to the closet next, sparkly dresses and some costumes exploding off the hangers, but as I check the insides of the doors and the ground there's no sign of anything there. “Hey, guys?” Sam suddenly says. I look over my shoulder, shutting the closet some as I watch Sam by the open window. “Yeah,” Dean answers.

Sam stares at the windowsill, quiet for a moment before speaking, “It’s not pneumonia,” he declares. My eyebrows furrow as I step towards the window and the mysterious clue, Dean swiftly at my side. The younger Winchester scoots aside to give us room to look out the window to see a dark handprint with long skinny fingers engraved into the wood, like it was burnt or something. “It’s rotted,” Sam says, correcting my thinking process, “What the hell leaves a handprint like that?”

“I’d say something pretty darn evil,” I mumble, looking up at Dean to gauge his reaction. But his face drops. His eyes are far away like he’s in a distant land or like the world is tipping on its axis, his face is almost sickly pale, lips parted just slightly, and I’ve seen this look before. This far-away look. The look he gets when he’s reliving an unpleasant memory, stuck in the confines of his mind. I place a hand on his upper arm, trying to offer something. Maybe later, if he allows me the chance to know which memory, I can comfort him better. I cannot erase the memory or fix that sick feeling on his face but maybe I can give him comfort and security. “I know why Dad sent us here. He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job,” he declares.

It’s dark out by the time we pull up to a motel. “So what the hell is a Shtriga? I’ve never heard of it and it’s not in Dad’s journal” Sam asks as we exit the car, a name that Dean had labeled as what we’re hunting.

“They’re a type of witch from Albanian mythology and folklore,” I answer, old information from spending years researching types of witches coming back, “They feed off of the life force of children while they sleep, well, if we’re getting specific then they feed off of spiritus vitae,” the Latin slips off of my tongue with ease, a perk of having it as a second language.

“Spiri-what?” Dean attempts.

“Vitae. Spiritus vitae, it’s Latin and translates to, um, ‘spirit of life’ but I think it’s sometimes confused as ‘breath of life,’” I inform, “You know, there was this composer around 1914 who had a song with the name and I—“ I’m cut off by the clearing of his throat, an intentional move. “Right,” I exhale, feeling my face grow just a little warmer.

“Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about 16, 17 years ago,” Dean adds his information which would help explain his previous reaction, “You were there,” he directs at his brother, “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Sam answers simply.

“I guess he caught wind of the things in Fitzburg now and kicked us the coordinates,” the older Winchester elaborates.

“So wait, this…”

“Shtriga,” I fill in for Sam.

“Right. ‘You think it’s the same one Dad hunted before?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean nods, slowly heading in the direction of the motel's office.

“But if Dad went after it why is it still breathing air?” Sam asks, following after him.

“Cause it got away,” Dean says simply, almost with a lack of emotion or conviction.

“Got away?” Sam echoes.

“Yeah, Sammy, it happens,” he snaps.

“Not very often,” Sam pushes despite the clear frustration on his brother's face.

“Well I don’t know what to tell ya, maybe Dad didn’t have his Wheaties that morning,” he remarks.

“What else do you remember?” he continues to push.

“Nothin’. I was a kid alright?” he spits, opening the door to the reception area a little too harshly. For whatever reason he doesn’t want to talk about that memory, likely the same reason he looked so sick before. He may deny its existence, but his defensive response is too defensive to be the truth. We both know that. He walks straight up to the desk, hitting the little silver bell. The idle noise of a distant television continues as a young boy no older than 12 with blonde hair walks up to the counter, “A king or two queens?” he asks. The soft noise of the TV becomes accompanied by small laughter from a seemingly younger boy.

“Two rooms, two queens and one queen,” Dean answers as he has done countless times before. A brunette woman enters then, her eyes tired but her smile warm as she approaches behind the kid, “Hi,” she greets.

“Hi,” Dean answers plainly with hardly a hint of his usual flirtation. If I weren’t worried about him already I certainly would be now. “Checking in?” she asks, still wearing that bright smile. “Yeah,” he exhales.

The woman turns her attention toward the boy first, “Ahh, do me a favor, go get your brother some dinner,” she directs.

“I’m helping a guest!” his voice goes just a little higher as he defends himself. Expectantly, she gives him a pointed look and quickly he gives in, grimacing as he turns to go. “Will that be cash or credit?” the woman asks, back in business mode.

“‘You take MasterCard?” he asks and she nods, “Perfect. Here you go.” He hands over the fake card and immediately his eyes go to the boys in the back room, the older boy pouring a glass of milk for his younger brother. And once more he gets that look on his face—that far-away look.

****

“You were right, Y/N,” Sam says looking up from his laptop, “Wasn’t easy to find but you were right.”

“Naturally,” I smile, letting myself be a little cocky. He scuffs, shaking his head with a hint of that bitch face he has. “Anyways,” he starts, “I was thinking what if when she takes your vitality maybe your immunity goes to hell, and pneumonia takes hold. Shtriga’s can feed off anyone but they prefer–”

“Children,” I conclude, “That’s an interesting theory, and children, of course, have developing immune systems making them, typically, weaker than one of an adult which could be why they’re favored. That or they have more life force….Probably the latter….Definitely the latter.”

“And get this, Shtriga’s are invulnerable to all weapons devised by God and man,” he informs, a detail I was unaware of or forgotten.

“No, that’s not right,” Dean corrects, “She’s vulnerable when she feeds.”

“What?” Sam asks, leaning back from his laptop.

“If you catch her when she’s eating you can blast her with consecrated wrought iron,” he explains, “Uhhh, buckshots or rounds I think.”

“Ooh, look at you Mr. Knowledge,” I say smiling rather proudly at such a small thing. And maybe him demonstrating his knowledge was a little hot in a weird way but that stays between me and myself.

“How do you know that?” Sam asks, focused on the “important” things.

“Dad told me. I remember,” he puts it simply.

“Oh, huh,” Sam hums, “So, uh, anything else Dad might have mentioned?”

“Nope, that’s it,” he answers and we know it’s a lie. He’s clearly remembering a lot from that time period, or enough to make him act weird or uncomfortable twice now. I wish he’d just talk and share more. I know it’s not a “he doesn’t trust you enough” kind of thing but rather afraid to be vulnerable because he feels he’s not allowed to be. It’s moments like these where I particularly hate their father. “What?” Dean exclaims, looking between his brother and me—we must’ve been staring. “Nothing,” Sam exhales, “Okay. So, assuming we can kill it when it eats, we still gotta find the thing first, which ain’t gonna be a cakewalk. Shtrigas take on a human disguise when they’re not hunting.”

“What kinda human disguise?” Dean asks.

“Historically, something innocuous. Could be anything, but it’s usually a feeble old woman, which might be how the witches as old crones legend got started,” Sam explains.

“Worst misconception ever,” I shake my head.

“Hang on,” Dean says, crossing the room.

“Hanging on,” I say. He pulls out a map from his bag, unfolding it and lying it down on the bed forcing us to get up and crowd around him. “Check this out. I marked down all the addresses of the victims. Now these are the houses that have been hit so far,” his finger travels over the paper, moving to each mark, “And dead center?”

“The hospital,” I answer, eyes jumping to the center of the marks, “Man, triangulation is good.”

“The hospital,” he confirms, “Now when we were there I saw a patient, an old woman.”

“An old person huh? In a hospital? Phew,” Sam snickers, shaking his head, “Better call the Coast Guard.”

“Well listen, smart-ass, she had an inverted cross hanging on her wall.”

*****

We move past the empty reception desk, the lateness of the night giving us the perk of a bare hospital. But, apparently, it is not bare enough for Dr Hydecker to be gone. Quickly we slide down a side hallway, sticking to the wall as he walks backwards, a coat hanging in the crook of his arm, “See you tomorrow Betty,” he says to a nurse down the hall receiving a “Try to get some sleep,” in turn. He spins the right way around, walking past us as he continues down the hallway.

Taking our opportunity we continue on to the old woman’s room. Dean creeps the door open, and like on autopilot we draw our guns as we enter the room. It feels incredibly horrible to be pointing a gun at an old person, especially when she seems to be peacefully sleeping in her wheelchair facing the corner of the room. Yet, we move to the other side of the room, surrounding her. And ever so slowly Dean moves closer until he’s right beside her, and even slower he moves closer and closer to her face until— “Who the hell are you?!” she screams, turning her head towards the man in question. Dean leaps up, quite literally taking air before his back hits a wall cabinet. “Who’s there? ‘You trying to steal my stuff?” she grumbles, “They’re always stealing around here.”

I nudge Sam to hit the lights, quickly concealing my gun behind my back before they flicker on. With light soaking us we can see the old lady clearly now, her eyes clouded with a greyish fog otherwise known as cataracts. “We’re so sorry ma’am, we didn’t mean to startle you,” I say.

“We’re maintenance,” Sam cleverly adds, “We’re sorry. We thought you were sleeping.”

“Ahhh, nonsense. I was sleeping with my peepers open,” she laughs at her own joke, then gestures at the wall, “And fix that crucifix, would ya? I’ve asked four damn times already!”

*****

It’s early morning when we pull into the motel parking lot and all I want is a nice shower and either a nap or a lot of caffeine. It would’ve been worth the lack of sleep if Dean’s theory was more fruitful than it was. In fact, Sam’s still laughing about the whole ordeal, “‘I was sleeping with my peepers open’?” he quotes, laughing like a crazy person as we exit the car.

“I almost smoked that old woman, I swear. It’s not funny!” Dean replies.

“Oh man, you shoulda seen your face,” Sam snickers, whipping away a lone tear.

“No, you should’ve seen how far you jumped,” I laugh nearly bellying over, “Dude, you took flight.”

“Yeah, laugh it off,” Dean grumbles, “Now we’re back to square one.” And it’s that that sobers me up. While the ordeal was funny, the kids in the hospital aren’t. We have no more leads. We might as well be back to square negative one. Suddenly Dean holds a hand up, “Hang on,” he says halting us as he walks over to the boy from last night. The blonde boy sits on a green bench with a worried almost pained look on his face. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks the boy softly. The boy looks up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, “My brother’s sick,” he croaks.

“The little guy?” Dean asks, crouching down to see him better.

The boy nods, “Pnemunioa. He’s in the hospital. It’s my fault.” My heart might as well break. God, this was so messed up. How much life force did this damn thing need? “Ah c’mon, how?” Dean asks.

“I shoulda made sure the window was latched. He wouldn’t’ve got pneumonia if the window was latched,” he explains, rationalizing the best he can. Dean looks away for a moment, eyes meeting the ground before moving back to the boy, “Listen to me, I can promise you that this is not your fault. Okay?”

“It’s my job to look after him,” he defends, shaking his head.

“Michael!” the woman from last night suddenly calls, grabbing all of our attention. She hurries out of the motel to a black car with all sorts of bags on her shoulders and a giant blanket rolled beneath her arm, “I want you to turn on the no vacancy sign while I’m gone. I’ve got Denise covering room service so don’t bother with any of the rooms,” she orders.

“I’m going with you,” Michael declares, rising from the bench.

“Not now, Michael,” she responds, placing each item in the back seat of the car.

“But I gotta see Asher!” he argues.

“Hey, Michael. Hey,” Dean steps up, “I know how you feel–I’m a big brother too, but you gotta go easy on your Mom right now, okay?” Michael seems to take this advice, no longer arguing, even if it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “Dammit!” she suddenly curses at the drop of her purse, she buries her head in her hands. “I got it,” Sam announces, picking the small bag up and handing it to the stressed woman. “Thank you,” she responds.

“Listen, you’re in no condition to drive,” Dean starts, “Why don’t you let me give you a lift to the hospital?”

“Wait,” I say suddenly, moving closer to them or rather to him, “let me do it,” I insist. His green eyes bore into mine, asking a silent ‘you sure?’ I nod, “Yeah, I got it.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly…” she butts in, shaking her head.

“No, it’s okay, really, I wanna help,” I respond. What's another day wearing the same clothes from yesterday? It’s her turn to study me now, maybe to decide if this really will burden me or to determine if I’m trustworthy, maybe both. Either way, she hands over her keys. “Thanks,” she says, trying to manage a small smile. She turns to her son then, “Be good,” she tells him. He nods, frowning, as I help her into the passenger seat. Closing the door behind her, I turn to the boys, “I’m gonna see if I can…do something,” I explain quietly. They nod, picking up on what I meant, “Be safe,” Dean warns, eyebrows pinched in worry.

“I will,” I answer, smiling softly.

“We’re gonna kill this thing,” he adds, face dropping its worry as it’s replaced by determination, “I want it dead, you hear me?”

“Copy,” I exhale even if it was directed at both Sam and me. Then, I round the car and hop into the driver’s seat.

The second you step into this hall of the hospital you could practically feel the walls lamenting, like they too grieve for the children. It’s all parents holding on to each other as nurses bustle around, or a parent sitting over their kid's bed with their hands clasped and their head down as if in prayer. It’s horrible. I wish I could fix it all with the snap of a finger, I wish it could be as easy as that. If I were to get a moment alone with them and heal them I’m not sure if it would even work or be effective, though the ‘maybe’ isn’t going to stop me from trying.

I see the father from before, he sits between his two kids, a hand holding onto each of theirs as if holding their hands alone would be enough to keep them on this plane. Meanwhile, the very woman I drove here, Joanna, is walking away with a nurse asking question after question. And with her gone, even just a couple of feet away, I can try. I can be helpful.

I take the seat close to the bed that his mother had been occupying. He looks so small in the bed, an already small child being swallowed whole, and he is so pale like not only life but color was sucked from him.

I want this thing gone just as much as Dean does.

The monitor he’s hooked up to beats steadily as I carefully pick up his small hand from his side, it’s cold as I cup my hands around it. I take a deep breath, letting my eyes shut on the exhale, and my shoulders relax a little as I clear my mind the best I can.

I don’t care about the morals of this, of the gray area, or anything. If I can help every kid here I would, but I don’t even know if I can help this one person. Healing Dean all those months ago increased how long I can hold on for— my tolerance, but again this was a serious scale. The most I could do or try was to help the white blood cells out, to give them a break or replenish what was lost. But that’s just about the same scale of difficulty as fixing a heart affected by a heart attack, and even then one healing session only helped so much or rather so little. There would be no way for me to do multiple healings to each kid if it were to work, so maybe this would all prove to be futile— and yet trying wouldn’t kill me, while not trying might kill them.

So, I let the magic flow, using my mind's eye to envision what I want to do—what it would be like to restore the cells and strengthen them. My eyes roll close as the magic seeps further into his body through the layers of skin and flesh. It flows from my veins, the world becoming deafeningly silent as if it was all vacuumed away into a black hole. Everything falls away, and nothing else exists here. My ears buzz with the absence of sound, yet I feel the steady thrum of my heart, pulsing like a mantra in the quiet. The energy hums between us. I can sense his body’s weakness, feel the sickness clinging to him, and I push against it, hoping that my magic can reinforce what his body cannot. The warmth from my hands spreads slowly, but whether it’s healing or just comforting I do not know. It feels like a fool's bargain. Another witch has already eaten at his life force, and now, as his body sinks deeper into sickness, I’m trying to use my powers to piece it back together—something that may not even be possible. Strengthening him might not matter if he’s already bound to die because of that thing. All I might be able to offer is comfort.

The clearing of someone's throat behind me pulls me back to reality with a sharp tug. My eyesight feels slightly lopsided, the faint buzz in my ear lingers, and something warm runs down my lip. But I do not have time to dwell as I shoot up from my seat, powers flicking off with a blink as I view the interrupter. A nurse about my height smiles with a clipboard pressed to her chest, “Sorry, I have to check on him,” she explains. I nod, moving out into the hallway as I use the back of my hand to wipe away the warmth that seeps from my nose. I pull my hand away, staring at the blood that sticks out from the rest of my (s/c) skin. But, I can ignore a bloody nose when it's likely not even half of what the kids feel like. And yet I have no idea if it did anything—some witch I am.

The faint buzzing of my phone clashes with the noise in my ears. I flip my phone open and hit answer, knowing who it is without having to look, “Hey,” I exhale.

“Hey,” Sam greets, “How’s the kid?” I look back at the room, the nurse writing things down on that clipboard of hers, “Um….” It didn't seem like there was any change, “...Not good.” There's shuffling on his end, grumbling, and a distant “No dude, give me room,” followed by another shuffle before a different voice speaks, “Hi, sweetheart,” a familiar voice greets.

“Hi,” I say again, “What happened there?”

“Ah, nothing—” I can practically hear that sideways grin on his lips even as there’s more shuffling—“You sound tired, ‘you okay?”

A smile pulls on my lips at his question, at that faint concern in his voice and it’s like I can see that furrow in his brow. “Mhm,” I hum, “Tell me you guys have something, please.” The line goes quiet for a moment before there’s shuffling again, “Oh, thank you for my phone,” Sam grumbles sarcastically, he huffs before he speaks again, “Anyways, we’re at the library. I’ve been trying to find out as much as I can about this Shtriga.”

“And now you’re gonna share the great and happy news, right?” I answer hopefully.

“Well…” he drags out, “Bad news…I started with Fort Douglas around the time Dean said our Dad was there and it was the same deal. Before that, there was, uh, Ogdenville, and before that North Haverbrook, and Brockway. Every 15 to 20 years it hits a new town. This thing is just getting started in Fitzburg. In all these other places it goes on for months. Dozens of kids before the Shtriga finally moves on. The kids just…languish in comas and then they die.”

Silence hangs on the line. There is nothing to be said. There is nothing but realization to fall upon you. It has happened before. It will happen again. The kids will die. “How far back ‘this thing go?” I hear Dean ask.

“Uh, I don’t know. The earliest mention I could find is this place called “Black River Falls” back in the 1890s,” Sam answers, “Talk about a horror show….” he mumbles before cutting back in with a “Whoa.”

“What happened?” I ask quickly.

“Hold on…” the line fills with distant clicks, “I’m looking at a photograph right now of a bunch of doctors standing around a kid’s bed,” he explains, “One of the Doctors is Hydecker.”

“No,” I say almost in disbelief, my mind connecting the dots. “God, I’m so stupid.” You would think I of all people would connect these dots far sooner, but instead, my only hunch wasn’t an actual hunch and was more so just thinking that his name sounded like a book that happens to have a complex yet wicked doctor. “You’re not, none of us knew,” Sam

“What are you guys on about?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly louder, I presume he got closer to the phone.

“Look at the date,” Sam directs and the line falling silent is enough to gauge his reaction. “This picture was taken in 1893,” Sam adds.

I shake my head, this is a lot. Not only is the Shtriga someone we’ve met but it’s a doctor who has direct access to the children and the vulnerable parents. These people trust him. Talk about right under our noses. “You know this means this guy has been doing this for centuries, right?” I ask though it’s more of a rhetorical question than anything. “I’ll um….” I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling, “I’ll meet you guys back at the motel.”

How I wish he wasn’t only vulnerable when he was feeding, otherwise, when I finish with the phone I’d take care of him. “I’ll pick you up,” Dean declares, his words a little rushed and his voice far closer to the phone than before. That smile pulls on my lips again, “Okay, thank you.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid till I get there,” he adds as if he knew what I was thinking. Although, he was likely thinking the same thing. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answer.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he says more firmly.

“Okay,” I give in, “I won’t be an idiot.”

“Good. Be safe,” he says, cut off by some mumbling between the two boys before the line goes dead as he hangs up.

I shove my phone back into my pocket as I lean off the wall, moving towards the kids' room. He’s still lying in that bed. His heart monitor beats the same rhythmic beat, he’s still pale, still unmoving, still—-

“Does The CDC have anything so far?”

His voice makes me jump, my heart leaping in my chest. I spin towards him, a new smile already plastered on my face, “We’re still working on a couple of theories.”

What I wouldn’t give to do something now. Patience is not an easy virtue. “It’s nice to see you care as much as I do, coming on your time off and all,” his eyes briefed over my frame. I’m not in professional clothes like yesterday, although it’s not clear if he means to point it out as a way to show his suspicion. “Nothing more important than helping kids, right?” I respond with instead.

“That’s what I always say,” he adds. And I’d really like nothing more than to punch him in the face… among other things. Violent things. “Well, let me know if I can help,” he offers.

He can help by not existing anymore. “Of course, thank you,” I nod.

*****

Dean leans against the Impala, arms across his chest and daggers in his eyes. He doesn’t need to be around the doctor to be angry. I wonder if my expression resembles his—a mutual hatred for the same person. “It didn’t work,” he says, referring to my healing. He takes a few steps towards me, closing the short distance between us.

“No,” I exhale, frowning, “I don’t think at all.” Then, his arm is around my shoulder, pulling me into his side before he walks me to the passenger side of the car. I move away from his hold to be in front of him, my back to the door, “I don’t like this hunt,” I admit.

His eyes drop to the frown on my lips, his eyebrows furrowing, “Me neither.”

“Did you guys think of a plan yet?” I ask. His eyes sweep over the car, no longer willing to make eye contact or look at me at all. “Yeah, but—”

“But you don’t like it,” I finish for him. He looks at me again, his shoulders deflate, a tired expression washing over his face—it’s seeing him without his facade on. This is about more than their plan. I place a hand on his arm, “Do you want to talk about it?” But, his eyes avert again and he shakes his head like I knew he would and I nod because I will not push him. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. When he wants to. Then, he stands straight, the walls back up as he meets my eyes and I can still see the remnants of a plead. He reaches his hand up, slipping it easily onto my face to cup my cheek. And, slowly his head leans down, inching forward till he’s but a breath away. He leans his forehead against mine, his breath on my skin. I could push up and our lips would touch…

His arms wrap around me then, bringing me to his chest, keeping me close. The familiar scent of him fills my senses, this is safe even outside a hospital with an evil doctor. His head moves to my neck, those shoulders decompressing again. Maybe the walls weren’t all that up. “I messed up,” he mumbles into my skin, yet I can still hear the catch in his voice like a croak. My hand instinctively goes to the back of his head, “What do you mean?” I ask softly.

“It’s my fault all these kids are dying,” he elaborates, his tensing jaw flexing against my neck.

“How is it your fault, Dean?”

He pulls his face away, his jaw set. “Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. We were in a crap motel room for three days and I was climbing the walls. I needed to get out. When Sammy fell asleep I went to the reception area to play a game they had there. I was only gone for—gone for—” he swallows, “The Shtriga was there, feeding off of him. If my Dad hadn’t shown up when he did he would’ve—”

“Hey. Hey,” I say softly, and it’s my turn to cup his cheek now, “You made a mistake in a situation you couldn’t have possibly predicted. You were a kid. Okay? You were a kid. These kids aren't your fault.” But, he shakes his head. He won’t or can’t accept it and I know it was John who convinced him of this. “You were a kid,” I repeat.

“Sam said the same thing,” he answers instead, confirming that he had told his brother this.

“Of course he did. No one could blame you for what happened, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t make the same mistake twice,” his hands slip from me and I retract too, “It’s going to come for Michael next. We’re gonna take advantage of that.”

My eyebrows furrow. “I know you don't like it,” he quickly says, “But it will work. I'm going to kill it.”

*****

Asking a kid to be bait went just as well as one would expect. Horrible. “Well that went crappy,” Dean mumbles, “Now what?”

“He’s a kid, you can’t ask that of him,” I answer, “Maybe it’s for the better anyways.” I don’t like this plan. I don’t like the idea of putting a kid in danger, let alone exposing them to the very same world they were forced into. It’s not fair. “You can’t ask an adult to do something like that, much less a kid,” Sam adds.

Then, there’s a knock at the door. Dean gives us a questioning look before he opens it, the young boy standing there. “If you kill it, will Asher get better?” he asks quickly.

“Honestly? We don’t know,” Dean answers truthfully.

“You said you were a big brother,” Michael says. Dean nods, “Yeah.”

“You’d take care of your little brother? You’d do anything for him,” Michael asks. The man in question looks back at his brother, a look shared between them. “Yeah, I would,” Dean replies, looking back at the boy.

“Me too. I’ll help,” he says.

Dean hooks up a security camera in the corner of the room, moving it into place while Sam ensures it’s working from the next room over, watching the feed. I study every inch of the room to commit to memory. I wasn’t leaving this up to chance, I don’t care how quick we can get here because it won’t be quick enough. But, I can be here quickly, in a single second. “This camera has night vision on it so we’ll be able to see clear as day,” Dean tells Michael before calling out to his brother, “Are we good?”

“A hair to the right,” he directs, and Dean adjusts it, “There, there.”

“What do I do?” Michael asks from his bed, tucked in and sat up. This was a horrible idea. Dean moves towards him, sitting on the edge of his bed, “Just stay under the covers.”

“And if it shows up?” he asks, his voice hard with determination but his face giving away his fear.

“We’ll be right in the next room. We’re gonna come in with guns. So, as soon as we do, you roll off this bed and you crawl under it,” Dean directs.

“And if they’re too slow I’ll be here in seconds,” I add, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“How?” he asks. And although it’s an obvious question I still fumble for a good answer, “I have a trick up my sleeve,” I muse, hoping that a kid will let me leave it at that.

“What if you shoot me?” he asks now.

“We won’t shoot you. We’re good shots. We’re not going to fire until you’re clear, okay?” Dean answers, Michael nods tentatively, “Have you heard a gunshot before?”

“Like in the movies?”

“It’s gonna be a lot louder than in the movies,” he answers, and he’s so careful with this kid even though we’re putting him in a horrible position, “So, I want you to stay under the bed, cover your ears, do not come out until we say so. You understand?”

Michael nods slowly, but the fear in his eyes is prominent, his bottom lip quivering. “Michael, ‘you sure you wanna do this?” Dean asks. Silence fills the room, he isn’t sure—he shouldn’t be. This poor kid.

“You don’t have to, it’s okay, I won’t be mad,” he says softly. He’s giving this boy a choice, more than he ever got and that thought alone makes me want to cry. “No, I’m okay. Just don’t shoot me,” Michael answers.

“We’re not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

*****

The night drones on. The feed remains relatively the same except for when Michael shifts in his bed. He’s safe and I wish it could remain that way all of tonight and forevermore. I almost don't want the Shtriga to come if it means keeping him safe and away from the world I know. But, that’s not an option or a choice and the gun weighs heavy in my lap. “What time is it?” Dean asks. Sam checks his watch, “Three. You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?”

“Consecrated iron rounds, and yeah it’s what Dad used last time,” Dean answers.

“Hey, Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam suddenly says.

“For what?”

“You know, I’ve really given you a lot of crap, for always following Dad’s orders,” he elaborates, “But I know why you do it.”

“Oh, god, kill me now,” Dean grumbles, never one for vulnerable moments. Sam laughs softly, knowing to stop there. The room falls back into silence, eyes staring intensely at the screen.

Something moves outside the window, a mass of darkness, “Look,” I point out. The window slides open, the Shtriga slides inside, “Not yet,” Dean orders, placing a hand on my thigh to stop me from getting up. I throw him a sideways glance, logically I know we have to wait but everything else screams we shouldn’t.

The being in a hooded cloak creeps closer to the bed. It leans closer, and closer. I shoot up from my chair. It opens its mouth. I envision Michael’s room in my head and I’m there. “Get down!” I order, finger ready on the trigger. The side door bursts open. He rolls off the bed and I don’t waste time in shooting the thing. Over and over. Their guns accompany mine. It gets hit from two different angles. It crumbles to the ground. The guns stop. “Mike, you alright?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” he answers from beneath the bed.

“Just sit tight,” Dean directs. He approaches the Shtriga carefully, his gun at the ready. He stands over it, waiting for movement. But, there isn’t any. He relaxes slightly, he glances at us. Suddenly, the Shtriga jumps up and grabs him by the throat, moving at an inhuman speed. It lifts Dean and throws him against the wall, something shattering behind him.

It moves quicker than my eyes can follow. Suddenly, it’s on me, its long fingers wrap around my neck, lifting me up before sending me back into the far wall. My gun knocks out of my hand as I hit the floor, skidding across the wood. Then, it has Sam. It throws him into the wall and the moment he hits the ground it’s on him.

I extend my hand out, an invisible force grabbing hold of my gun. The Shtriga forces his mouth open. I drag my gun towards me as I pick myself up on my knees, the pain spreading in my back protests such action. It opens its mouth widely, a great white energy begins to extrude from Sam’s mouth. Finally, I grasp my gun, quickly I lift it and—“Hey!” Dean shouts. The shtriga looks up and he shoots it right between its eyes. It falls backwards, leaving Sam to gasp for breath. “You okay little brother?” Dean asks.

Luckily, he nods and holds up two shaky thumbs-up. I force myself to my legs, moving over to Sam to help him stand. The corpse of the Shtriga lies there with its mouth agape, white energy spews from its mouth like a puff of air in the cold. Still, Dean raises his gun and shoots it three more times. More energy escapes from it until it disintegrates, the black cloak falling in on itself. I didn’t expect it to do all that but at least it’ll be gone for good. It won’t be able to hurt any more kids or their families.

The morning seemed chipper than the previous day, like the earth knew to be happy. Or, maybe I’m just projecting because we got rid of something that caused a lot of harm.

Dean takes my duffle bag from me, packing our things away in the trunk. Joanna comes out of the reception office looking around. “Hi! How’s Asher doing?” I ask as she approaches us. I hadn’t seen him since yesterday, since before we killed the Shtriga. “Have you seen Michael?” she answers instead, worry on her face. And as if on que Michael comes running up, yelling, “Mom! Mom!”

He jumps into her arms and she holds him closely, “Hey!” she smiles, her boy safe in her arms. “How’s Ash?” he asks.

“Got some good news. Your brothers gonna be fine,” she says.

“Really?” Michael beams.

“Yeah. Really. No one can explain it—it’s a miracle,” she glances up at us, answering us at the same time, “They’re going to keep him overnight for observation and then he’s coming home.”

“That’s great,” Dean answers.

“How are all the other kids doing?” Sam asks.

“Good. Really good. A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis says the ward is going to be like a ghost town,” she answers.

“Dr. Travis? What about Dr. Hydecker?” Sam asks, faking confusion.

“Oh he wasn’t in today. Must have been sick or something.”

“Yeah, you know it’s common to get sick in hospitals with all the exposure to the germs brought in and the drug-resistant bacteria,” I reply, realizing only after how the explanation is probably not the most reassuring thing ever. But, she doesn’t seem to dwell on it as she looks at her son and asks, “So, did anything happen while I was gone?”

Michael glances at Dean, “Nah, same old stuff.”

“Okay,” she smiles, “You can go see Ash.”

“Now?” he beams, his smile wide. He looks to Dean again who nods slightly. God, he’s so good with kids. “Only if you want to,” Joanna answers. Michael doesn’t answer, instead he runs to the car. She laughs, “I, uh, I’d better get going before he hot wires the car and drives himself.”

This was the true rewarding part about hunting. To see their smiles, to fix what was wrong, to save people. It makes all the trauma worth it. “It’s too bad,” Sam says.

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” Dean brushes off.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant Michael. He’ll always know there are things out there in the dark—he’ll never be the same, you know?” There’s a long pause as the weight of it sets in. I had already thought of this, but there’s nothing we can do now but hope he doesn’t have to be exposed to anything else that goes bump in the night. “Sometimes I wish that…”

“What..?”

“I wish I could have that kinda innocence,” Sam admits.

“If it means anything…sometimes I wish you could too.”

I wish they both could be ignorant to this aspect of life. I was doomed to know of it even if I didn’t decide to hunt it because I am a part of the things that go bump in the night. But, they didn’t have to be doomed. Even though I love them, if never knowing them meant saving them from this world, then I’d make that deal.

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