Flight Canceled Due To Turbulence

Notes: I wasn't sure about this one, but kateruth was awesome as ever with contributing lines and assurances, so here it is. Sorry for the wait. The holiday season is determined to drive me mad. I'm thinking of building a bunker and hiding underground until it goes away.

So, hey, while I'm babbling... It's been almost a year since I posted my first story for all the world to sneer at. Over 700,000 words in that time. Time flies, and apparently, so does my muse. But it turned out to be a great hobby to escape everyday stresses, so I'm glad I took the leap! You guys rock so hard it hurts. :D

Anyway, happy holidays to all who are celebrating! They'll probably see me killified but I hope everyone else is having a blast with their stuff. :)

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Gleefully sadistic gremlins zipped along internal slides, tiny rusted pickaxes and serrated claws protruding from miniature hands thrown out in joy and tearing through tender red walls to leave a wake of gory spray, and when they encountered a pesky obstacle in the form of an internal organ, they slashed and clawed and made a craggy hole and zipped right through that too, cackling and screeching at the hellish amusement park his insides had become.

He thrashed and flailed, limbs connecting with hard surfaces every which way, solid thunks and cracks barely felt. Something shattered and distantly registered. There wasn't much room for coherent thought amidst the all-consuming agony.

Fuck, it seared, stung, tore, shredded, sonofabitchithurtsmakeitstop! He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream even though his lungs burned with wanting to vent themselves ragged. He couldn't fucking see anything but white and red spots dancing around, fuzzy with their own pain, as if seeing anything at all was a capital offense all on its own, and what the hell did he ever do to deserve this?

There was nothing but harrowing anguish, past, present, future, on and on and without end. It felt like dying, only worse, because the dead part wouldn't come, and the pain wouldn't go. The destructive little pain-gremlins would not be evicted no matter how many times he mentally drop-kicked them from the premises. It was after midnight and they were chowing the fuck down, unwilling to abandon the ample feast of inner chaos, feeding on it and feeding it in a self-perpetuating cycle of maddening torment.

The vicious raiding party was in full swing, miles down and so many more to go.

It lasted forever.

And then—finally—something broke through his haze of excruciating static, something not in him but outside, evidence of life on other, less barbaric, planets.

“...kay... et you back... bleeding... know what to d... shoulda told 'em... 'nough just lemme...”

He registered a voice that was familiar and not, blurry shapes penetrating the sandpaper sparks in his eyes, fast and slow, bright and flaring. He tried to articulate a thought or question or threat, but whoever or whatever seemed to anticipate him without his having to organize the grisly mess of his mind.

“You have been Chosen, brother,” was the vague answer he got for his unspoken troubles.

The voice seemed to resonate inside his already shrieking head, and he didn't know what that meant, couldn't find the capacity to care at the moment because it wasn't helpful in any way. Something pawed at him, convulsive sparks everywhere it made contact and he tried to tell it fuckingquitthatshitfuckingkillingme! but his voice remained uncooperative. He must've communicated his displeasure somehow, though, because:

“Whoa, ow! Hey, hold still a minute and I'll fix you up, kid.”

He wasn't buying it. This wasn't snap-your-fingers fixable, two-by-four-right-through-the-chest not fixable; somehow he knew that. Not by whoever the hell was groping him and owfuckdon'tdothat! He tried to move, perpetrate violence against this incredibly unhelpful interloper that only brought more pain, and maybe it worked; it was hard to tell what with already being cocooned in a rampaging whirlwind of brutality that had no respect for physical boundaries in the form of skin and bone. Every cell in his body was gifted with sheers and razor-sharp blades, stabbing, slicing, mutilating. He didn't know how there was anything left of him to feel and goddammitpleasewhenwillthisfuckingstop?!

And then it did stop.

His head quieted, the shrieks stuttering out like a dying engine.

He made out unintelligible murmurs is some foreign language.

Pressure on his chest from the outside.

A flare of warmth.

A wave of acid washed over him one final time, white stole his sight for the briefest second, and then he gulped in a great whooshing breath, starved lungs burning with relief.

The fall breeze rushed over him and carried the voice with it. “It won't last long. You have to hurry.”

Dean's eyes crashed open and he found himself sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, the scenery beyond the windshield tilted at an odd angle as he panted and coughed, relished the expansion of his chest, the intake of crisp air.

It took him a minute to get his bearings, wide green eyes slamming around in baffled panic as his chest heaved, seeking the source of that voice, but whoever it was was long gone. Or maybe a figment of his tortured imagination.

He wiped a shaky hand over his face and assessed the rest of it: the grass and mud in front of him and how that just didn't seem right, a distant, tinny baritone booming indecipherable upset, the shattered driver's side window, shards of red-stained glass jutting out from the hole like teeth, the night breeze rushing in to caress his sweaty face, and then there was the all time whatthefuck as far as the unpleasant rollercoaster of torment went.

He realized he'd crashed. The Chevy's nose was buried in a ditch, cracks spidering across the windshield that provided a view of the field sitting up too high with a slash of dark sky. A glance to his right informed him that staticy voice was issuing from the cell that had fallen into the passenger's seat at some point, and then he remembered.

He had been driving, the ache in his chest only kept growing worse, and he'd had the wild notion that he was suffering the beginnings of a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-four. His phone rang, it had been his dad wanting to know where he was, how far out, and then the wall of painandnothingbutpain had slammed into him, taking the outside world away.

And again, he was back at: What. The. Fuck?

His head felt sticky and wet, something dripping down to sting his left eye, and he reached a hand up to dab at it, fingers coming away from his hairline coated red. That sight seemed to be the trigger for the numbness of shock to flee the scene, and his aches and pains came back online with a vengeance. Most notably, the dull roar in his head and the blaze that had cropped up on his left arm. He looked down at it, saw a river of blood running out of the jagged wounds, some of those angry glass teeth embedded in them. His arm was ribbons, his hand a mangled, broken mess, and he must have made that hole in the window with a flailing fist over the course of his little fit.

Dean hissed, instinctively curling the mutilated appendage close to his body as his other hand fumbled for the phone, still trembling. He could still feel the malevolence humming just beneath his skin, like it had been covered haphazardly with a tarp and the slightest twitch would uncover it all again. Those goddamn gremlins were waiting underneath with their implements of torture, tapping and chattering their claws and fangs obnoxiously to create a cacophony of ominous rattling that set his teeth on edge.

It won't last long.

The warning echoed, and he knew it was true somehow. Time was short, but he wasn't sure what to do with his brief reprieve. None of this made any goddamn sense.

Dean pressed the phone to his ear, breaths coming back into a normal rhythm. “Dad.” His voice was raw and grating, his throat felt like he'd swallowed some of that glass, and he wondered if maybe he had screamed just a little.

“Dean!” John's bellow was at DEFCON 1. “What the hell, son?! What was all that hollerin'? Are you hurt?”

Check in the screaming category. “I, uh...” He had no fucking clue.

He was trying to straighten his thoughts and convince his supersonic heart that light had not challenged it to a race when his call waiting beeped, and he rasped out, “Hold on a sec,” before pulling it back to glance at the screen.

His hand jiggled the device around with its incessant shaking, his eyes still watery and blurred. He took a steadying breath and blinked rapidly, managed to work out that it was Bobby's number flashing at him, and suddenly he just knew.

You have to hurry.

Dean snapped his phone shut without further thought for his father or even answering Bobby's call. He fumbled with the keys in the ignition, immense relief when the engine roared back to life without much complaint, and then he shifted into reverse and stomped the gas. Smoke flew up from beneath the spinning rear tires, their purchase on the asphalt compromised due to the angle of the car, but eventually Dean's determination paid off and the huge black beast jerked itself free and shot backwards. Hurried, abusive one-handed coercion of the wheel, and the car finally completed its squealing dance as it found the right direction to aim for.

He still didn't know what the hell was going on, but he knew he had to haul ass. Dean put pedal to the metal and raced back the way he came.

*~*~*

“Idgit!” Bobby hissed as he jabbed clumsily at his phone and cut off the call, his other hand occupied with trying to hold the writhing girl in place as he sat at the edge of the guest bed. The cell tumbled out of his grasp as Dawn's body jackknifed up off the bed, her wrecked screams having died off in favor of wheezing painfully for air, and Bobby twisted sharply to hold her down until the violent thrashing ebbed again.

Dawn's eyes were wide and glazed, shifting aimlessly in her sockets, her face contorted in agony she could only voice through choked gasps and the steady stream of tears trailing down her face. Bobby's own features screwed up in sympathy and anger, pissed that he couldn't do anything except keep her from smashing her skull open and try to reach Dean, who was being a galling shade of uncooperative.

Bobby's face reddened as his biceps bulged with the effort to keep her from snapping her spine in half as her body slammed against the mattress and jerked the bed with enough force to have it screeching a few inches across the floor. The ferocity of her convulsions eventually began to taper off, giving way to twitches as her breaths took on a sharper staccato that punched into the silence like drumbeats.

Then, alarmingly, she stilled completely.

Bobby eased his hold reluctantly, studiously searching unblinking eyes for signs of continued pain or relief. Anything. She just laid there, though, refusing to give him a clue. It was like she'd lapsed into some sort of catatonia, which was just the fucking thing his fraying nerves needed.

He pulled back and kept wary eyes on her, debating with himself as he removed his hat and scrubbed at his head before replacing it again with a heavy sigh.

This was nine kinds of fucked. His heart had made a concerted effort to leap out of his throat when the screaming started, and then it'd threatened to quit on him altogether, protesting its abuse by fluttering at his ribcage like a trapped, rabid pigeon as he flew up the stairs with his shotgun in hand, ready to shoot whatever was making that god-awful noise.

Upon seeing it was Dawn, he'd been tempted to shove her in the truck at first and chase after Dean until logic kicked through his haze of panic. The way she was flailing around and clawing at herself told him he wouldn't be able to carry her far without causing one or both of them grievous injury, much less drive while that was going on in the passenger's seat. Plus, there was the simple fact that, while Bobby could defy the laws of physics behind the wheel when he had a mind to, there was no way his old pickup would catch up to the Impala even without the head start. And who knew which back roads Dean had taken? There were several to choose from in these parts.

Rumsfeld's nails clicked against the hardwood floor as he paced agitatedly near the door, letting out a whine every now and then and looking to his master for clarification on the strange new proceedings.

“What'd I tell ya 'bout gettin' attached to people?” Bobby scolded gruffly, hands swiping over his tired eyes.

Rumsfeld's ears perked as he tilted his head, his big eyes going from Bobby to his disturbingly silent new friend. He shuffled over uncertainly, rested his head on the edge of the bed with a puff of air through his nose.

Bobby echoed the sigh.

Damn Dean for dropping his weird case in this poor, old hunter's lap because his emotional ship had hit choppy seas and he couldn't say no to John. And damn that cranky old bastard for providing him with the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card, too. Bobby couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd freaked out quite as much as when a Winchester was involved. Well, he could, but he wasn't going there.

It hadn't escaped Bobby that Dawn said this thing went two ways, and that maybe Dean was out there suffering the same incapacitating pain, which was another reason he was cursing that boy in his head. He was better at being pissed than fretting like an old woman.

Dawn remained still for long, uncomfortable moments, the lack of life sending a chill coursing through him. After about five minutes more of the same, Bobby decided it was safe enough to transport her. He couldn't take her to the hospital, obviously, as they'd have no idea what to do with her. He doubted the heavy duty pain meds they had available would alleviate pain attached to a mystical curse, anyway, though he made a mental footnote to pilfer some from the local clinic if nothing else. But he could try to go after Dean now. If she started seizing again, well, that was a risk he had to take. He'd search every back road heading west to make sure Dean hadn't smashed into a tree, try getting through to John again to find out where they were to meet, then head to California. Because this brief coma reprieve probably wouldn't last, and Bobby didn't know if Dawn could survive much more of it.

He cast another worried glance at her as he rose from the bed and headed for the door, praying that she wasn't just suffering silently. “Watch her,” he muttered to Rumsfeld, then hurried out to pack a bag.

*~*~*

Forever. They'd been wandering forever. Well, maybe it was more like days. It'd probably only been hours back home, but they'd definitely been kicking up dust long enough for him to know he'd missed at least two sleep cycles. It wasn't like there was a sun or anything like nightfall to give him a clue, just the eternal conflagration of sky.

Faith was still marching right along like this was some marathon she was just warming up for, not once breaking her determined stride as her ponytail bobbed playfully in front of him. She wasn't in any kind of playful mood, however.

Damn Slayer reserves, Xander thought irritably as he took another swig from his canteen and sloshed the water around his gritty mouth. There was no wind, really, but somehow the red dust seemed to rise up into the air anyway, eager to be inhaled. He sighed in satisfaction as the lukewarm liquid slid down his parched throat, and Faith threw a suspicious glower over her shoulder.

Xander just rolled his eye and let it rove on to scan the endless desert once more as he screwed the container shut and strapped it back over his shoulder. She was wound tight and waiting, as if she just knew he was feeling to compulsion to break the forced silence, and any second now, she'd have to follow through on her threat to knock his teeth in.

When Faith told him to shut the fuck up with that dangerous glint in her eye, Xander shut the fuck up. He knew how far was too far when he was feeling pushy and she was feeling immovable, and besides, this wasn't really the time to babble his way back into her good graces.

The utter emptiness of their surroundings was making him uneasy. Well, okay, hell dimension, so no one could really blame him there. Still, the 'silent as the grave' ambiance did not help matters any. Xander knew all about graves and their deceptive quiet. It was just badness waiting for some idiot to come bumbling in. He was not going to be that idiot, thank you very much, which was why there was no bumbling, in step or speech.

He faltered a moment, hefting the heavy pack to give his sore back a fleeting moment of relief, and when Faith gave him another look, he squared his shoulders and trudged on, unwilling to allow his limitations to hinder their progress. All this camping gear was damn heavy, though, and he didn't really get why they weren't using it.

Well, he got it. A cave or even some trees, any kind of defensible ground was better than a few tents out in the open. But they weren't finding anything like that, and he was not going to be in any kind of fighting shape if the kept this up for much longer.

Abruptly, Faith stopped, dirt puffing up as she unceremoniously dropped her baggage and huffed. “Just a few minutes,” she grunted, resolutely not looking at him as she stretched her arms skyward, the small pops of her back easily heard in the soundless atmosphere.

Xander dropped his own gear as she gave a small groan of relief and plopped down in the sand, taking his time stretching out his own sore muscles as he continued keeping a wary eye on the landscape. He wasn't going to sit. Sitting would precede falling over and dropping off to sleep. Lead me not into temptation, he thought wryly, trying to enjoy the brief respite in his standing position.

All around it was flat, the red desert seeming to stretch on into infinity, except that he noticed a slight incline of the monotonous terrain in one direction. It was the barest hint of a hill, and probably only more nothingness beyond that. Then again, maybe it was a sign of changing scenery. “We should head that way,” Xander said, speaking for the first time in ages and startling Faith with his rough voice.

She stopped tracing random patterns in the sand with her forefinger and followed his gaze. “Something to aim for, I guess,” she acknowledged, squinting at the horizon.

Which was an improvement over the nothing they'd been aiming for before, Xander silently agreed as he rolled his shoulders around to work out the aches.

Then, apropos of nothing, Faith looked back at him and scowled some more. “You're an ass, you know that?”

Xander paused, staring down at her in confusion. “What the hell did I do now?”

She blew out a bitter huff and gracefully hopped to her feet as if seeking higher ground on which to lay into him again. “You never fuckin' listen to me, and the one time you do, we're in this creepy-ass place where I can hear tiny little grains of sand scraping together, and it's getting on my nerves!” she growled at him, poking a finger at the air to punctuate her annoyance.

Xander crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “You're mad at me for not talking when you told me to not talk?” he clarified, more than a little annoyed himself. Why couldn't she just say what she meant and mean what she said?

“Yes!” she shot back, stepping forward menacingly. “You're confusing and irritating as hell and I should kick your ass for it!”

“Whoa, okay, back up a minute!” Xander tossed his hands up to stave her off, brows colliding in anger. “Don't get all irrational woman on me, Faith! I'm not in the fucking mood!”

“Irrational woman?!“ Her face contorted in indignation that was a sure sign of fists about to fly. “You son of a—“

“Hey, you're the one who's being crazy!” Xander pointed out, stupidly poking the bear with a stick even as he backed up a few steps. He just didn't get her, or where this was coming from all the sudden, he was exhausted and his aches had aches, which all amounted to his mouth disconnecting from his brain.

Faith stopped cold, frowning severely as her eyes sparked like daggers being struck against stone. “Crazy ain't news,” she ground out. “And that's my whole point, so leave the crazy supergirl alone before she breaks you.”

And now Xander was lost to total bewilderment. “What? I thought this was about talking.”

“It is! It's also about you being a pain in the ass! Keep up, Harris!”

Xander shook his head and sighed, arms dropping at her petulant, deflating air even as she continued glaring with her fists balled at her sides. “Your sense is nonsensical, and I'm too tired to translate, so can you just tell what this is really about before my head explodes?” he asked tiredly, his body reminding him he had zero energy to spare for this.

Faith's shoulders sagged, her gaze plummeting to the ground. “You know what? Just shut up,” she sighed out, turning and bending to pick up the packs.

“Whoa-ho-ho-no.” Xander stepped forward in a possibly suicidal move and gripped her bicep, forcing her to straighten and pulling her flush against him so she couldn't escape his determined stare. Her breath caught and she was unmasked for a fraction of a second before her glare renewed its spark, the skin beneath his palm vibrating with barely checked violence.

“Shutting up sets you off, apparently, so I'm back to not listening to you. Except when I'm listening to you, which is right now, and you're gonna tell me in sane-person speak what the real problem is,” he said evenly, realizing too late that his proximity to her soft skin and lean musculature was going to do bad things to his lower region any second and detract from his resolve.

Faith jerked out of his grasp, her stare going flat as she seemed to shiver something off. “You're the real problem,” she said a little breathlessly, then hastily resumed gathering their things.

Xander worked his jaw and snatched up his own pack, gave up on trying to puzzle her out. “Whatever,” he huffed as he snapped the appropriate buckles and straps back into place. He was irritable, way too easily worked up, and feeling infuriatingly bereft and cold as the fleeting warmth from her body heat drained away too quickly.

It was hell, he decided. Hell made women crazy so that men would have no choice but to smash their own brains in. He wasn't giving this place the satisfaction.

Faith headed for the hill without waiting to see if he was ready, and Xander just heaved another sigh and shuffled onward, gazing toward their destination resolutely so he wouldn't have to look at her and be all confused again. Except that totally wasn't working because she was right about the scraping sand being deafeningly loud, and he probably wouldn't have even noticed if she hadn't said anything, which was probably why she brought it up in the first place. Slayers were conniving that way sometimes, and this was the reason he usually avoided their bad sides. It wasn't the violence they got you with, oh no; it was the mind games.

Something in his peripheral flickered, forcing him to refocus as he realized his eye had slid off course to glare at the back of her head without his permission. He squinted and, a beat later, the air shimmered again.

“Faith,” he warned, hastening his step to catch up to her and grab her arm again.

“Xander, I told you to fuck off!” she snapped, whirling on him.

“Faith, stop being a bitch for no reason and look.” Xander reaffirmed his grip and pointed at the quivering air just above the rise.

Grudgingly, Faith did look, then let out an aggrieved breath. “Good for you,” she grumped, twisting free of him and putting some distance between them to convey he needed to stop with the grabby hands.

She stomped off in the more specific direction of the flickering silhouette that hinted at some kind of structure. Xander wasn't so sure it wasn't a mirage, but he followed her anyway and hoped like hell a mirage was the worst case scenario.

*~*~*

Bobby tossed the duffels in the back of the truck, then glanced down at his mutt with a disapproving frown. “Quit actin' like a lovesick puppy,” he griped, tugging his leg free of Rumfeld's teeth. The Rott released his pantleg and plopped his butt down in the dirt, looking up imploringly with another whine. “You know the drill. Watch the homestead, and I'll be back later.”

Rumsfeld jerked his head to the ground with a snort as if to refuse this order, looked back up and gave a small growling bark.

Bobby's frown deepened. “Y'can't come.”

The dog growled again, then loped over to the passenger's side of the truck and surged up to rest his front paws on the metal, peering in through the window where Dawn was ensconced in a nest of blankets and pillows in the front seat. She'd started twitching around and whimpering again about fifteen minutes ago, and Bobby needed to be on the road already. Rumsfeld gave another bark, dropped back down and trotted over to the driver's side to plant himself near that door, looking expectantly at Bobby as if to say, 'You gotta open that to get in and the second you do, I'm getting my way.'

Bobby heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. “I ain't got time for this,” he grumbled, walking over and glaring down at his uncharacteristically uncooperative pet. Rumsfeld remained unperturbed, tail wagging in anticipation.

“Fine,” Bobby acquiesced, ripping the door open. “Stay in the middle, and if anyone ransacks the place while we're gone, you're fired.”

The dog's only answer was to leap up into the truck and sit in the driver's seat, blocking Bobby's entrance.

“That ain't the middle,“ Bobby growled, quickly losing patience as he shoved at the Rottweiler's flank.

Rumsfeld refused to budge, making whining excuses for his behavior.

“Damn it, boy. What the hell's gotten into you? Git over there, or I'm packin' you in a crate bound for Alaska.”

The dog swung a paw around to stave off the nudges, then rammed his snout into Bobby's elbow to emphasize his desire, his growl taking on a more menacing air as Dawn's whimpers increased.

Bobby pulled back and eyed him in consternation, reconsidering. Rumsfeld was well-trained and hadn't ever acted out unless there was something wrong and he needed to communicate this fact. Though he usually did it by yapping his head off and tearing off toward a threat like a bat out of hell. Bobby was obviously misinterpreting his newfound loyalty to the girl, but hadn't the slightest clue how to decipher whatever message the dog was sending.

Rumsfeld barked high and loud, hauled his front paws up onto the steering wheel and started howling at the windshield. Bobby turned to eye the dirt track leading up to his place, noticing two pinpricks of light in the distance. Seemingly assured that Bobby was on the same page now, the Rott bounded out of the truck and up to metal archway, his barks sounding more like when he saw Bobby heading back in after a hunt than when he sensed a threat. Not taking any chances, Bobby liberated his shotgun from behind the seat and shut the door, waiting in front of his truck for the visitor to be identified.

It didn't take long for him to pin the roar of that particular motor, and when he noticed the erratic swerve of the beams as they barreled ever closer, he tossed his shotgun in the bed of the truck and headed for the road, ready to run out there if the Impala dove headlong into a tree or a ditch.

“Fuckin' idgit,” he grumbled to himself, nerves twisting themselves about again as he waited impatiently for the driver to get within head-smacking range.

The Chevy skidded to a reckless stop in a thick cloud of dust, the engine still idling as Dean stumbled out of the car and landed in a heap. Bobby noted the damage to the car, but that was secondary as he rushed over to see the younger man struggling to push himself back up.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean ground out desperately once he got to his knees, using the front tire to try and lever himself up the rest of the way.

Bobby forgot about wanting to smack him around when he took in Dean's deathly white pallor beneath the bloody muck and the way he was quaking at least a 7.6 on the Richter scale. “What the hell'd you do to yourself, boy?” Bobby bent down to help him, but Dean jerked away and ended up crumpled back in the dirt.

“Watch the arm, dude,” Dean rasped out as he rolled over and tried again.

It was then that Bobby saw the shredded flesh Dean was cradling close to his body, swallowed his heart back down into its rightful place and carefully hauled Dean off the ground by his good arm.

“S'wearin' off,” Dean said, his voice trembling in time with the rest of him, but it didn't detract from the uncertain anger when he demanded, “Where is she?”

The elder man guided him to the truck, and Dean didn't hesitate to yank the door open. It gave its customary groan and then Dawn was juddering out of it, falling into Dean's chest. The boy's pain-bright eyes broadcast relief at the contact, and his breathing began to even out. Dawn came back to herself just enough to twist around and curl her fingers into Dean's shirt, burying her face against the crook of his neck, subconsciously seeking her cure. He leaned heavily into Bobby to work his good arm around her, anger quickly evaporating when he realized he wasn't the only one afflicted, but neither of them stopped shaking. It looked like a scene out of a romance novel, if that novel had been written by a horror writer with a penchant for blood and near death experiences.

Dean was covered in a thin sheen of sweat with one foot in the grave, and Dawn wasn't much better, so Bobby finally wrangled some sense and decided, “We need to get ya both inside.”

Dean wearily nodded his agreement, but he didn't want to let go of Dawn when Bobby tried extracting her, green eyes glinting danger and a snarl on his lips.

“Boy, you ain't in any shape to carry her. I got her, just get yourself in. Think you can manage?” He didn't quite muster up the aggravation he was going for.

Dean puffed out another shaky breath and nodded again, reluctantly loosed his grip so Bobby could take Dawn's weight. The younger man sagged against the body of the pickup for a moment to steel himself, his chest hitching once more, then started his painful trek across the yard. Bobby kept an eye on his progress as he rearranged the girl until her legs were slung over one arm, her head lolling against his shoulder as he supported her back. She started keening at the loss, slapping weakly at Bobby's chest for stealing her away, and Dean kept shooting backwards glances as if afraid the elder hunter would abscond with her off into the trees any moment. Bobby caught up to him easily and let him use his shoulder as a crutch, trying not to collapse beneath all the wobbling weight. Rumsfeld circled the shuffling threesome anxiously until, finally, they were inside.

Dean made for the sofa but Bobby shook his head, knowing none of them were going to make it up the stairs. “Chair,” he said shortly, and Dean made it the extra few feet before tumbling into it, instantly extended his arm in a silent command.

“Give her,” he said gruffly.

Bobby complied and placed his burden in Dean's lap. Dean gathered her close like he was trying to meld them together, and Bobby quickly set to work pulling the cushions of the ratty sofa and jerking the squeaking bed out of it.

“Here.” He waited a beat to see if Dean was going to bite him for picking her back up. When he didn't, he lifted Dawn, had to tug at her to get her to release her clutching fingers from Dean's shirt once again, and laid her out on the bed. Dean managed to stagger over to it on his own, Dawn's hands groping at the air until he fell back into them.

Once they were both tangled up together on the thin mattress, Bobby bustled out to retrieve the bedclothes and med kit from the truck. He lost his mind to simple task of doing, saving the rest of it for later. He needed to remedy all this bleeding Dean was doing and just hope their proximity to each other was enough to fully reverse the other effects.

Bobby jogged over to shut off the Impala and retrieved the keys. He shoved them into his pocket as he hurried over to his pickup, shouldered both duffels, piled his arms full of blankets, and trotted back inside.

Dean was cursing a blue streak at the ceiling, yanking at his own shirt while Dawn laid half over him, both of them looking fit to jerk right out of their own skin.

“Scissors,” he demanded as Bobby dumped everything at the foot of the bed to rifle through his duffel.

Bobby cocked a brow, but did as asked, hotfooting it to the kitchen and back with a pair of scissors in hand.

“Shirt,” was Dean's next clipped order, obviously not trusting his own unsteady hand with the sharp instrument.

Dean hissed and grit his teeth against an agonized moan as Bobby carefully pried his injured arm away from his chest. He made quick work of the shirt, maneuvering the scissors around the part of him that Dawn was attached to, tossed the tattered material off to the floor somewhere.

“Need to take a look at this arm,” Bobby informed him.

Dean just grunted in response, and Bobby decided to take that as acquiescence as the boy jostled Dawn around with his good arm. “Don't look,” Dean muttered as he tugged up the hem of her shirt.

Bobby averted his eyes, focused on digging out the first aid kit and readying the supplies while Dean peeled Dawn's shirt off. He situated her back over himself, and Bobby wordlessly shoved the covers within reach. Dean tugged them up to cover the two of them, clinging to her for dear life as both sets of eyes fell shut simultaneously with twin sighs of relief. The violent shaking quickly dwindled to a minor shiver, and Bobby supposed the skin-on-skin contact had been what Dean was after. He hoped Dawn was wearing a bra, because he couldn't imagine her being very pleased when she finally regained some coherency and found herself half-naked.

Dean's taut features smoothed over, his body visibly relaxing. “Do your worst,” he told Bobby, leaving his mangled arm out at his side for Bobby to poke and prod as necessary, then promptly passed out.

Bobby dragged his desk chair over and tied off the bloody appendage to staunch the blood flow, sighed and prayed there weren't any severed arteries or nerve damage that would require a hospital as he began threading sutures. He didn't see the explanation of the conjoined twins and why they couldn't be separated going over well.

Fucking Winchesters.

*~*~*

Fucking Xander. Fucking hell dimension. Fucking Buffy and fucking Dawn and fuck it all.

Faith kicked the broken stone lodged in the sand and glanced over at Xander. He was crouched over another piece of ebony rock, glassy smooth surface reflecting his intent features as he examined it and continued trying to raise Buffy on the walkie. “Buff, come in, Buffy,” he muttered, the radio hissing static back at him as he ran his other hand over the hastily etched markings.

His t-shirt was pulled taut against his back, affording her a torturous view of rippling muscle that called up the very recent memory of him pulling her up against him all macho-like, all hard planes and sharp contours that were so good and fuckyes and if she could have just pressed up a little closer and angled her head just so...

Which made it very, very bad.

Xander brushed his hand over the surface again to clear some of the dust.

“I told you not to do that!” Faith snapped, aiming her favorite glare at him as he glanced over his shoulder. Slayers could keep on trucking with little rest, but it didn't stop them from being cranky. “You're gonna rub an evil genie out of an evil lamp or somethin' if you keep touching shit!”

He huffed and opted not to engage, shrugging her off and jabbing at the radio's button again. “Xander to Buffy, come in. Track us to our location if you can hear me.”

“I thought magic didn't work right here,” Faith grumbled, apparently to herself since Xander was studiously ignoring her now. She fingered the brass pendant Willow had given her for tracking purposes. She'd been able to track the demon with the tooth, open the portal, supposedly had the ability to keep tabs on them with the pendants, but she couldn't magic up a fort? What the hell kinda crap was that witch playing at anyway? Faith was convinced Red was fucking with their heads at this point. Hell, this whole place was fucking with her head.

She ground her teeth and dragged her gaze up to the top of hill, the ruins of what had once been civilization no longer flickering in and out like bad reception. More of the black, broken rock jutted up out of the ground, larger pieces of a jagged puzzle that easily painted the picture of cluttered dwellings once upon a time. It was a maze of destruction now, but useful to wanderers seeking something solid at their backs.

Faith looked back down to the debris at her feet, covered in scribbles similar to the one Xander was inspecting. She wasn't a linguist or a scholar, but she knew last minute warnings when she saw them. The symbols were lopsided and messy, spattered with dried substances that could easily be demon blood, and obviously not part of the original décor. Someone or something had used their last vestiges of strength to scratch it in, which didn't make her feel good about this place at all. What could there possibly be left to say when your little city was in the process of being demolished and you were dying? A 'turn back now' for unfortunate future travelers was Faith's guess, but she was a Slayer, and Slayers didn't scare that easy.

It kept her vigilant, though, so she let Xander play detective while she played lookout and did her damnedest to focus on the bad juju that was drenching the air here and not Xander's stupid, sculpted back or the way her mouth kept running off with her brain when he was around. The hair on the back of her neck was standing further and further on end the longer they lingered here, pinching her muscles into taut preparation and whispering the baser instincts of fight or flight at her for no apparent reason. There was nothing to hit or run from.

It was Xander's fault she couldn't straighten out what was putting her on edge, she decided. Distracting. That was what he was. Bad for the job. She had Buffy to keep in line, which was hard enough in all its backwards-ness, Creators to track down that would ultimately lead to their missing team member, and goddamn it fucking fuck, demons to kill the hell out of!

Faith's senses went from a low, exploratory buzz to full-on red alert as the air split and spewed forth badness. She plunged to her knees in the dirt and wrestled around with the scattered packs until she located and freed her preferred weapons—a wickedly curved ax and double-edged broadsword—hopped smoothly back to her feet and called out a warning to Xander. “I told you not to fuckin' touch things!”

Normally, the prospect of a good fight with the mood she was in would improve her outlook considerably, but Xander was worn down from the trek, which meant she'd have to cover him, and there didn't look to be an end in sight to the encroaching army. They'd shimmered out of thin air and it almost looked like they were still shimmering, just row after row of black shapes in neat formations in the distance, spilling into the world like ants. Much like the way their presence made her skin crawl, incidentally.

“Fall back!” Xander shouted as he materialized at her side with his own weapons, tugging on her shoulder to get her moving. “Faith, come on! There's too many of 'em to fight in the open! They'll swarm us before we even get started!”

Faith loosened her battle-ready posture and conceded strategy to him, wall after wall of sour, curdling intent slamming into her and calling more warrior-driven savagery to the surface than any tactical planning. She turned and raced up the hill, pushing Xander ahead of her as he tried to drag one of the weapons' duffels through the dirt with them. Faith transferred her weapons to one hand, bent down and scooped up the bag easily.

“Just go!” she ordered, assuring Xander the extra weight was not slowing her down in any notable way as she rammed into him to accelerate his forward momentum without losing speed.

The sandy incline was playing hell with their traction, the ground slipping from beneath their feet and giving the enemy an even clearer view of their position with the dust storm they were stirring up. Faith persevered, keeping her free hand at Xander's back to propel him faster than his human legs wanted to carry him.

The world was no longer eerily silent, the drumbeat of the demons' onward march thundering the ground in great quakes, the roar of their battle cry growing ever closer, but Faith's senses still picked up the ominous whistle of rapidly displaced air that signaled incoming projectiles over the cacophony. She yanked on Xander's shirt and slammed her body into him, both of them crashing into the sand just before something that would have been painfully fatal whizzed over their heads.

One of the substantially larger structures ahead was hit, the stone shattering apart like spun glass. Shards of black exploded outward and Faith stayed atop Xander, covering her head to avoid losing an eye. Heavy chunks bounced off of her, and she bit back a cry as she definitely felt something crack under the assault. The sharp burn of the jagged debris embedding in her back and legs wasn't all that inspiring, either. Even so, she didn't falter in hauling Xander back up when the sky was done raining down on them.

“There went that idea!” Xander panted, looking between her and the destroyed illusion of shelter wide-eyed.

Faith chanced a glimpse over her shoulder even as she shoved at him to get moving again, her back radiating fresh agony that definitely signaled a broken rib or two. The front lines were edging close enough for her to get a decent view of gnarled, black, vaguely humanoid bodies with twisted limbs and disfigured, knotted faces, snarling lip-less mouths, and skin like charred tree bark. Their eyes were an even deeper black, movements lumbering but still managing a uniform precision as their soulless gazes broadcast their lethal mission loud and clear. There were no visible weapons, suggesting the flying fatalities were likely inherent magic, and their tapered claws looked like they could do enough damage all by themselves.

And still they kept coming, hell's relentless soldiers peppering the landscape as far as the eye could see, and probably they'd keep filing in until the interlopers were neutralized, overkill obviously not a term they concerned themselves with.

“Go!” Faith barked when Xander slowed to try and get a look at the numbers himself.

Xander went, but his fatigue was alarmingly apparent in his bloodshot eye and sunken shoulders, and the remains of the city had been proven completely and utterly useless to them as the demons could just launch more of their destructo balls until they annihilated what was left of it. Faith was just one Slayer with little knowledge of this new enemy: if her weapons could inflict any damage and how much, how resilient they were. All she knew was that they outnumbered her, would keep outnumbering her because they wouldn't stop coming, had serious firepower, and her back was stinging with too much wet warmth even if her soaring adrenaline wasn't making that enough of a priority to slow her down. Blood loss would catch up to her eventually, and probably at the worst possible moment.

“Faith, we can't take them all!” Xander shouted between ragged breaths, echoing her thoughts.

“I know!”

They reached the top of the incline, slowing for the briefest second to take in the expanse of yet more desert on the other side.

“So what the hell do we do?” Xander asked as she tossed her weapons into the duffel and slung it over her shoulder. She could see that ghost of a soldier running around his head, dredging up tactics and plans and chucking them all out the window in frustration, his features set with grim tenacity nonetheless as he watched the legion advance.

Buffy was right. He was useful in that way, and if his inner soldier was looking to her inner Slayer for contingencies when she had never proven to be the strategic one so much as the you-point-and-I-slay one...

Xander, you big, dumb hero, why'd you hafta come here?

Faith looked back at the rapidly gaining army, looked ahead at the endless sand with no reprieve in sight, then at a faded Xander, her heartbeat pounding in her ears and her breaths a little too painful.

She wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him forward. “We run.”

*~*~*

Gone and there from one moment to the next. He woke up like that a lot, from numb, restful darkness to bright, instant awareness, able to do the reverse just as easily, switching himself on and off.

He began cataloging before he was fully aware the white and gray speckled squares that greeted him were ceiling tiles. Warmth on his hand, something wiry and cool on his forearm, hums and whirs and beeps and the shuffle of foot traffic, the pungent scent of too much antiseptic trying to mask that sickly-sweet smell. It took him less than thirty seconds to feed all of this into his brain and come up with hospital.

Which was an unpleasant realization. He must've been more fucked up than he thought. Had his arm fallen off?

Damn hospitals. More trouble than they were worth. The nurses had better be hot, at least.

Dean sighed his grievance, glad to note pain was not one of those things registering. That was all blissfully distant, which meant there were some good drugs pumping through him... except he didn't feel quite as loopy as he should if that were the case, and there was a slight tingle. So that left...

Crap. His heart rate got a little overexcited for reasons good and bad as he let his head roll to one side and caught sight of the most conflicted blue orbs he'd ever seen. She was just... looking at him. A faded magazine lay sprawled and forgotten in her lap, one long-fingered hand resting loosely over his knuckles, legs crossed, and eyes that were really just an illegal shade of blue and hard to read.

At least she looked okay, though. Not unconscious, good color to her cheeks and no hint of lingering pain. Her features were a bit drawn and tired, and she couldn't seem to pick an emotion to radiate at him—concern, half-ass anger, guilt, defiance, concern again—but she looked better, which was good.

Maybe not so good as he recalled the events preceding his blackout, questions, questions, and more questions filing in without consideration for his still somewhat groggy mind's rate of absorption. There was something niggling, too, a hint of pertinent information lost in the fog of agony-riddled memories. Something about the car, or the wind, or driving. Maybe all of the above.

Dawn was back to trying to look pissed again, and Dean leaped into defense mode, even as he was careful to keep his hand very still lest she steal the comforting contact away. Apparently she had the same idea as they both spoke nearly in sync.

“What friggin' hell did you do to me, woman?”

“You're a dumbass. You're a perv and a dumbass,” she amended, fingering the hem of her newly acquired shirt pointedly.

Dean furrowed his brows, eyes drifting over the plain, white tee and more of those skin-tight jeans (Christ, she was trying to torment him in ever way she could think of), one sneakered foot jiggling over the top of her knee agitatedly.

Fuck, he'd forgotten about the stripping, but it was self-defense stripping what with all the pain coming back to try and turn him inside out again. It wasn't like he'd been in any condition to enjoy the show, and she'd been wearing a bra anyway. It was all very justified, but the world was unfair and somehow he didn't see that explanation going over well.

“You, ah, woke up before me, huh?” he asked with a wince, turning his head to inspect the ceiling for weaknesses. Very important business, that. It could fall in on them at any second, so he was just making sure.

He didn't need to be looking at her to know she was thoroughly unimpressed with his observation. Dean could feel the 'duh!' streaking its way across the silence.

Abruptly, he felt too vulnerable lying down the way he was, huffed and fumbled for the bed controls with the hand she wasn't sort-of-holding. It was clumsy and heavier than he remembered, a solid thunk against the bed frame making him pull the appendage up to investigate it. It was casted from the base of his fingers to just above the wrist, the rest of his forearm covered in a macabre road map of stitches and bandages.

“Bobby couldn't fix your arm and you were losing too much blood,” she answered his unspoken question.

Goddammit. The Impala. AGAIN. His poor baby had done nothing but suffer since this chick showed up. And, as if to scold him through their telepathic link (there was totally a telepathic link with his car, fuck you very much), his hand flared with a wicked itch beneath the stark white cast. He yanked his other hand out of hers to try and work his fingers in and scratch at it.

“You're not supposed to touch that. It's a disaster in there and touching is very bad,” she scolded, standing quickly to grab his wrist and hold it hostage. Dean made a sour face as she reached down and adjusted the bed so he could sit up. She set his hand down in slow motion and patted at it, a silent command to stay put. “I should get someone. Let them know you're awake.”

She pulled back and turned to do just that, but Dean swiftly snagged her fingers before she left his reach, tugging her back. “I don't wanna be poked and prodded,” he said gruffly when she pivoted and looked askance. “Soon as the coast is clear I'm gettin' the hell outta here. Where's Bobby?”

Dawn thankfully returned to her seat instead of arguing with him about being examined further even as she bit her lip uncertainly, guilt flitting back to the forefront to take the stage for a bit, and it didn't take a genius to figure out she felt like shit about this connection or whatever they had putting them through all this hell. “Phone call. He's talking to someone extremely rude and annoying, or at least that's what I gather from all the shouting and grumpy faces. They wouldn't let him use the cell in here.”

“What time is it?”

Dawn shrugged, not needing to glance around for a clock as she was probably already well aware there wasn't one if she'd been sitting in that chair for very long. “Late afternoon, I think.”

She hesitated, then laid her hand atop his once more before the tingle could wear off, plowing on to fill in the gaps without his having to ask, like she really just needed to command the conversation so he couldn't fire any unwanted questions at her. “I woke up on the way here. You were bleeding all over me and God knows how Bobby managed to get us both in the truck, but he did. He had clothes, thank crap.” She paused and made a face at him, but he couldn't tell if she was upset about the topless thing or belatedly upset at the prospect of sitting around soaked in his blood for hours on end.

“They tried to make me stay in the waiting room, but you're a head case who's disturbingly dependent on me, like, to the point of severe mental and physical distress, and you can tell I'm not around even when you're unconscious,” she explained, still flipping through emotions at a freakish pace and ending on wry amusement as she took a little too much pleasure in telling him she'd labeled him a nutjob. Then she was back to looking alarmed and guilty again.

“They bought that?” Dean asked, cocking a brow and smirking.

“They did after they tried to run away with you and you started having a fit.”

“And you didn't?”

Dawn shrugged again. “I'm not as bad off as you. You look like a side of Rocky Balboa's punching meat.” Her eyes plummeted to the floor, ruining her own attempt at levity, and Dean wasn't in the mood for all this melodrama. He'd already established he didn't handle her being unhappy in his presence very well.

“So what you're saying is you think I'm beefy,” he said with a straight face, as if considering some important fact for a case.

Dawn snorted, her cheeks flushing in mild embarrassment even as she looked infinitely grateful for his tacky humor. “Only you could turn being compared to a mutilated dead cow into a compliment,” she drawled with a small grin. “A really lame compliment.”

“I take what I can get.” He shrugged it off, considered a moment, then asked carefully, “So was it bad? Like being zapped by invisible lightning bolts bad?” He kind of didn't want to know, but kind of needed to. He was late for kicking his own ass if her pain was half as bad as his. Hell, he never wanted to hurt her, even if he knew leaving would do that, but no way did he remotely want her to have suffered like that.

Dawn sighed, and dammit, the repentance was back. “I wasn't exactly having a field day, but I think you're still sensitive to it 'cause you're so beat to hell. Just... It's fine as long as you don't wander off too far.” She bit her lip again, a question she wasn't willing to ask blazing in her eyes, along with a good dose of fear.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed mildly, looking away as he muttered, “That's just fucking perfect.” He wasn't a total dumbass, wouldn't be taking off again until they figured this out, but his dad was going to be so pissed. Not to mention, the level of discomfort he was going to be forced into because he couldn't take sitting still very long.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?” Dawn blurted, misinterpreting his discontent. “I get that you don’t want to be here. The last thing I wanted was to force you to stick around.” She dropped her head so that her hair shadowed her face, mumbling under her breath, “You were grouchy enough when you liked me.”

Probably he wasn't supposed to hear that, but he did, so he had no choice but to nip that shit in the bud. “I don't not like you.”

Okay, not flowers and poetry, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, shifting in her seat uneasily. “It's perfectly fine with me if we don't talk about this right now... or ever.” Her tone wasn't bitter so much as rueful and distinctly uncomfortable with the topic.

Dean had no problems letting it drop because he wasn't exactly comfortable with it himself. She hadn't demanded an explanation or an apology, and he really wouldn’t know what to say if she had. He felt like enough of an ass about leaving, and being forced to face her after trying to ditch her? That was a whole new experience. Dean was a master at fading into the sunset, after all, and he hadn't had the misfortune of crossing paths with any jilted one-night stands after he left them in the dust.

Well, okay, there was that one time, but the girl wasn't jilted so much as excited to see him again. Her husband, on the other hand...

And then there was that chick in Florida, but she wasn't unhappy either. Truth was, most chicks knew what they were getting into with him and didn't expect anything more than his abrupt departure the next day. Or week, if extremely fun times were being had.

He was getting sidetracked. Dawn didn't even fall in that category anyway. No, she fell in the much worse category of an unfinished job. Sort of. She was more... and not. Fuck, he had no idea. She was presently uncategorized and he was just a dick.

He veered away from that mental breakdown lane and noticed she hadn't really answered his initial question, though he pretty much chalked it up to all the other weird shit that kept happening with her. She probably had as much of a clue about this as the rest. He sneaked another glance at her through the veil of his lashes, and yep, she was chewing on her lip and fidgeting around, looking utterly helpless and out of her element. Alien things were clutching at his chest and making him want to initiate hugging, and he frowned hard, nearly breaking out in a panicked sweat.

Dawn's eyes pinged back over to him and he glanced away quickly, glad for the reprieve because he'd almost been about to do it, and that would've been like admitting things... or something.

Dean was immensely relieved when Bobby shuffled in to break up the awkwardness that'd settled over the room, and he wasn't the only one if Dawn's harsh exhale was anything to go by. Bobby stopped hissing curses and glaring at whatever was in his palm when he caught sight of the two of them watching him expectantly. He looked worn and tired, rumpled flannel and sagging eyes, but his expression immediately lightened upon seeing Dean up and alert.

“Finally woke your lazy ass up, I see.”

Dean's mouth twitched up in appreciation of the older man's always appropriate, brash humor. “What can I say? Needed my beauty sleep.”

Bobby scoffed, pointedly looking over his bruised and beaten features. “Oughta drop off for a couple more weeks, then.”

Dean huffed a chuckle, glanced to Dawn smirking at their banter, which was a welcome sight.

The mood plunged to its death when Dean noted his own cell phone in Bobby's grip as the elder hunter secreted it away in his back pocket and the battered cap failed to shadow his features tensing up once more. Dean had a sinking feeling as he recalled how that damn thing had been ringing itself into a frenzy in the passenger's seat when he'd needed all his concentration on getting back to the yard without another collision.

Bobby sighed tiredly and plopped into the empty seat next to Dawn, looking torn between pissed-off and worried. He swiped a hand over his scruffy face as he opted for the band-aid-ripping approach and informed Dean in a grave tone, “Your daddy's on his way.”