Night, Boys

"It can't be a ghost," Sam says, unable to control his rising impatience. "Since when do ghosts travel from their haunt?”

Dean points right at you. “When they’re linked to something that travels.”

You look at Sam, unsure how to defend yourself against Dean’s insane accusations.

Sam can’t defend you, either. Just a few hours ago in the ER, the EMF detector lit up as soon as Sam placed it in your hand. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean storms toward you, stopping a mere foot away. “Any organ transplants?”

“What?” Your brow wrinkles as you try to comprehend what’s going on. “No.”

“Then it’s her clothes. Jewelry. Something.” Dean returns to the mini fridge. “And why the hell is she wearing your clothes?”

You look down at the sweatshirt you’re wearing over your own shirt and Jonah’s basketball shorts.

“She was cold. What about the heart, huh? Explain how the ghost butchered that guy in the men’s restroom that [Y/N] had never stepped foot in,” Sam clenched his fists as he squared his shoulders.

You’re still standing inside the salt circle with shards of the broken lamp on the floor around you.

“Oh, she was cold,” Dean mocks. “She was in the building, Sam. In. The. Building.”

“The heart is a werewolf thing.”

“A were-ghost. It’s possible.”

“That throws things at her?”

“Were-ghost-geist.”

“Dean!”

Dean whirls around and glares at you. He opens his mouth to say something but Sam cuts him off.

“I already tested her.” You and Dean both look at him. “No reaction to holy water, no reaction to the silver chain she’s holding right now. Go ahead, look. It’s in her hand,” Sam nods at you. “She stepped right over the salt with no problem. She’s not responsible for any of this. She’s caught up in the middle of it. She’s a victim, just like all the other people we’ve ever saved. And she passed right over the demon trap you drew,” he said, pointing at a little shag throw rug.

You tested me?

Dean eyes your clenched fists as his jaw grinds. Then he chugs the beer in his hand and tosses the bottle in the general direction of the trash can. “How do you suppose we keep her safe? You want to take turns standing watch? She can’t stay in that circle all night.”

Sam studies you, but you don’t notice because you’re staring at the silver chain in your hand. The circle pendant has a symbol on it just like the one you saw on Sam’s chest. “No. We can pour a circle around the bed.”

“How’s that going to stop it from throwing crap at her?” Dean asks, scratching the back of his head, eying the debris at your feet.

Sam shrugs and shakes his head like he’s out of ideas.

“We have no idea what we’re dealing with, Sammy. None of it makes any sense. How do you expect to protect her?”

Sam looks at you. “I’ll sleep with her.” His eyes widen. “Um, that came out wrong. What I meant was that I’ll sleep next to you so that I can... uh... I’m a light sleeper.”

Dean snorts on his way into the bathroom. “Since when.”

Your cheeks are burning and you feel Sam’s unease. You swallow the extra saliva that pools in the back of your mouth and ask, “Is it okay to step out of the circle now?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, relieved that you changed the subject. “Yes. Oh, you still need clothes. How far is your place? I’ll just grab the keys from Dean.”

You shake your head. “It’s late. I don’t want to wake up my roommate.” What you didn’t say is that you are afraid to leave the room. Something dark is out there, somewhere, after you. It could be anywhere. What if you lead it to your roommate? You can’t take the chance that she will meet the same fate as the professor. You shudder.

“You know, Dean might have a point. Sort of. It could be your clothes. Maybe... maybe when you fell something soaked into your clothes.”

You can’t see your own shirt under Sam’s hoodie, but you remember the hem felt damp. Next thing you know, you see water seeping up through the carpet and gushing from beneath the bathroom door. Dean’s in there. It’s clear at first, but gradually pinks until it’s dark and red and full of the promise of death.

You snap out of it. Sam is standing in front of you gripping your shoulders. “Hey,” he says. “Where’d you go?”

You blink and look at the dry bathroom door. “I saw it,” you whisper, but you don’t know if you really saw it or just imagined it. It’s not there now. It’s just your head.

You don’t want to have to wait until Dean comes out of the bathroom to pull your shirt off. “Can you just turn around for a minute? I want to get this shirt off.”

Sam tries not to smile as he nods and moves to the other side of the room with his back to you.

You quickly pull your t-shirt off without taking off the hoodie (probably the only valuable skill you picked up in P.E.). Suddenly, you can’t bear to keep any of your original undergarments on as they make your skin crawl, now. Anything that touched that scene or was even just there for it creeps you out. You still want a shower. And a wire brush.

You chuck your things into the ice bucket bag and tie it up. After a quick check to make sure you aren’t showing anything, you tell Sam it’s okay to turn around. Now you’re only wearing Jonah’s shorts and Sam’s hoodie, and in any other situation than this, that would make for a very interesting story. Sam tells you that you should hang on to those clothes so he can test Dean’s theory. You shoot a sideways glance at the bag you don’t even want to hold, and walk it over to the table by the door, as far from the bed as you can get.

Dean leaves the bathroom and sprawls on his bed fully dressed, shoving something under his pillow. “Night, lovebirds.”

A chill blankets your shoulders and chest as your cheeks burn. Sam shakes his head at him, but he hasn’t moved from the other side of the room, yet. He looks at you for a few moments, then tears his eyes away over and over again until you clear your throat. “You don’t have an extra towel, do you?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Come on.” He takes you to the bathroom and pulls the last clean towel down from the shelf. “I’m actually surprised that Dean saved it for you. He usually uses them all up if I don’t get to them first.”

“I can hear you,” Dean says with his eyes still closed.

“So, uh, yeah. I guess you would want a shower after...” He clamps his mouth shut, but it’s too late. He’s already brought the image back to the forefront of your mind, and he can see it on your face. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s behind you.” He rubs your arms. “Just take a nice hot shower and try to relax. A good night’s sleep will make you feel so much better.”

“Can you... can you wait right outside the door?” You hate asking, and it feels so weird to ask, but after the flying lamp and the jumping beds, you don’t want to be out of his reach.

He swallows. “Sure.” As he closes the door between you, he says, “Yell if you need anything.”

This is the shortest shower you’ve ever had, but it feels good to wash the day away from your skin and hair. You scrub your skin so hard it’s still red when you step out. Your hand stings a little under the bandage where soap seeped in. You only have the shorts and hoodie to wear now, so you put them back on. Sam meets you at the door when you open it, just as he promised.

“Better?” he whispers.

Dean is snoring.

You nod. Sam steps aside. “I’ll change that for you,” he says as he grabs his first aid kit. You’re quiet as he works, thinking about everything but trying to think of none of it. “I’m sorry for all of this. I don’t know why it chose you.”

You look up. “Huh?”

He runs his thumb over the tender marks on the back of your hand. “When you asked... Yes, we think someone... or something ... is using you to get to us, but we haven’t figured it out yet.”

It takes you a moment to remember no one ever answered your question when you first arrived at the motel. You drop your gaze, fighting off tears. He tapes fresh gauze over your hand and puts everything away so you can burrow under the ugly green blankets. “Are you okay... with this? I could uh... I could just crash on the floor,” he says, standing at the side of the bed.

You know if you don’t tell him how afraid you are that you will regret it. You’ll end up unable to sleep alone in the bed and it will be all your fault. You can handle yourself, not that you get the vibe that Sam would try anything. He sprang to your rescue more than once, now. You feel confident that next to him is the safest place you could be.

With your consent, he climbs into bed. His legs are a little too long and his feet hang off the end a little, but you feel the warmth radiating from his body right away and already it’s a comfort. Your eyes finally start to feel heavy.

You fight it, though, sleep; every time you start to drift, you’re back in the restroom surrounded in blood. It’s seeping out of the flayed body, seeping through the water, seeping into your clothes, onto your skin. By the third time you’ve startled yourself awake, you find yourself face to face with Sam. He’s still awake, still keeping an eye on you. His watchful eyes and warmth, even while you’re at least several inches apart from each other, soothe you. You manage to mumble “Thank you, Sam,” in the middle of a long, overdue yawn.