CHAPTER TWO:
❝ you'd be better off dead ❞

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

In spite of her stature, the girl's swipe was powerful. Swifter than he could anticipate, she caught him in the leg with the shard of glass, slicing through his pant leg and piercing the skin beneath. Sam recoiled, crying out in pain as he clamped a hand over the wound. Blood quickly seeped from between his fingers and stained the fabric of his jeans red, the same color as her dress. The girl reared back as if to strike again, but Sam quickly retreated. He stumbled back a few feet, flashlight clutched in his hand. With some distance between them now, she attempted to flee, but collapsed to her knees the moment she tried. Sam realized, upon closer inspection, that her ankle was red and swollen, possibly sprained or broken. She couldn't run. With no way to escape, the girl huddled once more against the tree. She squinted against the light pointed in her face, fixing Sam with a furious expression and looking much like an animal caught in a snare. Hostile, fearful, confused. Her lips pulled into a snarl and with all the ferocity of a wolf, she growled at him. A warning, he thought.

She was young, no older than thirteen or fourteen at the latest. She had long, matted hair that fell in wet strands in front of her face and down her back. It was impossible to decipher a color since it was soaked and tangled with leaves and twigs. The back looked as if it had been tied up at some point, but had been left unmanaged. It was akin to a rat's nest now. Her eyes were just as dark and shone like two black beetles in the beam of the flashlight. They darted back and forth nervously despite the resolve she was trying to exude, catching Sam in a scornful glare each time she looked back at him.
The nightgown she was wearing raised the most concern. It was dirty and torn, suggesting that she had been wandering the woods a while, and although her other injuries were consistent with something far harsher, Sam couldn't help but feel as though the blood that decorated the hem didn't belong to her. There was too much of it and the faded red handprint on her sleeve told a different story. He decided the situation required a far calmer response. He slowly put his hands up as if in surrender.

"Hey, hey...I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed. He found himself crouching down to her level, ignoring the sting in his leg. "Why don't you put that down?"

Her demeanor remained uncertain. Her gaze flickered between his face and his hands, and Sam realized that she was staring at the gun still clutched firmly in his grasp. The barrel wasn't pointed at her anymore, but she twitched anytime his hand moved even a centimeter. Sam turned the gun over once in his hands, held it up for the girl to see, before tossing it away. It disappeared out of sight somewhere in the brush. He showed her his empty palms, as if visually leveling the playing fields.

"See? Not going to hurt you."

If she believed him, she didn't show it; at least not immediately. She sat back on her haunches and hugged her legs. Her chin nearly pressed the tops of her knees with how tightly curled she was, but her eyes were always visible. They glistened suspiciously in his direction. The wind howled in the trees for the longest time and the girl remained impeccably still; Sam would have thought her a statue had she not just attempted to slice him to bits. Then, imperceptibly, the glass shard loosened in her grip. It was so slight that Sam almost missed it, but with it, her entire body seemed to relax. Her shoulders slumped and the tension in her hands eased as they gripped handfuls of dirty cloth. Dark hair fell into her face as she tilted her head, fixing him with a look that proposed she was surveying him just the same as he had done to her. The youngest Winchester took this as permission to continue speaking.

"My name is Sam," he said. "What's yours?"

The girl gave no response. Her beetle-black eyes shifted, blinked, but no noise came from her mouth. Sam moved on. He gestured to her clothes with a finger.

"That's a lot of blood there. Are you hurt?"

More silence. More staring.

"Can you talk? At all?"

Sam sighed. By the third question, he figured that, no, she could not speak, or yes, she could, she just didn't wish to. Maybe she didn't speak English. Whatever the case, she only stared at him, almost expectantly, as if waiting for something in particular. By then, he'd noticed the slight blue hue to her lips and the way she tried to suppress shivers with each gust of rain and wind. Her nightgown was made of thinner material and short-sleeved; he couldn't imagine she was very comfortable in the storm. Sam was cold too, and his fresh leg wound protested against the weight he was putting against it, but he made the brave decision to inch closer to her. She regarded him apprehensively.

"Look, I want to help you. But I can't do that out here. Why don't you come with me—I can get you some food, take a look at that leg, whatever you need," Sam said. "You're safe. You just have to trust me."

He slowly got to his feet and held a hand out to her, offering his open palm.

Silence and flinty brown eyes followed his words. She looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then at his hand again. Her fingers flexed around the glass and fleetingly, he feared that she might stab him again, but then she raised her unoccupied hand and tentatively reached for his own. Her touch was light and unsure, and she flinched when she finally rested her palm in his, then to some degree, there was relief. Trust.
Her fingertips had just barely closed over his own, when, over the sound of the storm, came the caterwauling of something in distress.

"Sam!"

Without much else warning, Dean came crashing through the bushes like hell on wheels, brandishing his gun and flashlight wildly. Surprised, Sam and the young girl yanked apart. She lurched backwards and flattened against the tree trunk in terror, eyes so wide the whites were visible on all sides. Sam scrambled to his feet. He put himself between the two, doing his best to momentarily block his brother's view as he entered the clearing.

"Dean, what the hell man?"

"What to you mean what the hell? I came to save your ass. I thought the bear got you," Dean snapped.

"Bear? What—Dean, no. No, there's no bear," Sam assured, exasperated. "I'm fine."

"Then answer when I'm calling your name, dumbass." Dean smacked Sam in the shoulder, hard, and turned away. "What the hell are you doing over here any—"

He caught sight of the girl and subsequently, her blood-stained dress, as she stood behind his brother and he bristled, looking much like a dog with it's hackles raised. His voice turned low and gruff. "Sam."

Sam held an arm out.
"Dean, just wait—"

Behind him, the girl was using her hands to claw her way into a standing position. She looked flighty, but, instead of fleeing like he thought she would, the girl shoved Sam's arm aside and lunged at Dean as he turned towards her. The sharp edge of glass glinted in her hand. Dean raised his gun to defend himself, but Sam veered forward and surprised them both. His shoulder connected with Dean's and in the eldest Winchester's shock, he dropped his Colt 1911 to the ground. He stumbled back a few steps to try and before he could reach down to grab it, Sam kicked it away with his boot. Startled, but undeterred, the girl sprang at Dean with her arm drawn back and daringly, made an arch for his face. Sam was quicker. He caught her arm in the upswing and held her tight around the wrist. His grip forced her hand open and the hunter seized the glass shard, which he promptly chucked into the woods behind them. Then, he released her. Unstable on her injured leg, she wobbled, then dropped to the ground entirely and scrambled away from the two siblings. She retreated a few feet into the trees before sagging back into the brush out of view. Sam immediately turned towards Dean, incredulous.

"God damn it, Dean!" He groaned, irritation evident in his tone.

Dean was taken aback. "Excuse me?" His voice was gritty, just short of a snarl. "You want to run that by me one more time?"

"I had things handled, then you come in here, guns blazing—now you've scared her off." Sam gestured in the direction the teenager had gone. Although he couldn't see her, he could picture her pale face peering at them through the branches. It watched them with curiosity and terrified anticipation, like a deer waiting to flee.

"Well, excuse me then for trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what, Dean?" Sam snapped. "She's a kid, not the boogeyman."

Dean wiped a hand down his face, annoyed. Water droplets gathered at his eyelashes and he had to blink rapidly, continuously, to clear them from his eyes. If anything, it seemed to perturb him further.

"They're never just a kid, Sammy," he emphasized. His tone was mocking, but Sam couldn't find in himself to care. "May I remind you of Lilith? Emma? Bobby John? Were they just kids, Sam?"

"No...but this is different," he protested, but to no avail.

"Dude, she's covered in blood. She looks like something out of The Shining. What about that screams 'different' to you?" Dean shook his head, green eyes narrowed. "With everything that's going on, I thought you'd be smarter than that."

The younger of the two fixed his brother with a scathing look, something they had both grown good at. "And I thought you could be less cruel than that."

"What do you want me to do, Sam? Invite her in for tea?"

"No! No. Look, she might be lost, okay? Or kidnapped. Maybe someone's looking for her." Sam paused, looking the direction of where the girl's white dress had disappeared. "Whatever happened, we can't just leave her out here."

Dean scoffed. "And how do you propose we do that?" He asked. "Call the police? Alert them to our super secret hideout in the middle of nowhere and hand over a bloodied child? They'll arrest us for sure, Sam."

"No. We'll take her to the nearest police station, tomorrow, after the storm."

"And what about right now?" Dean questioned, brows raised.

"We take her inside, get her cleaned up, see what kind of information she can give us," the younger hunter answered. "If she's something supernatural, she won't be able to get inside the Bunker and then we know."

Dean pondered on this for a moment, rubbing his jaw decisively and looking off into the darkened part of the woods. Sam figured he had a decent chance of convincing him. He had a soft spot for kids that had been amplified by his time spent with Ben and Lisa, a period of his life that stayed with him for years. Perhaps he thought of himself too, or how he'd practically raised Sam in John's absences. It was written all over his face. His brother could be a real asshole at times, but he wasn't cruel. He wouldn't let a child suffer any more than he had himself.
So, perhaps Sam's words changed his mind, or maybe it just was the squelching of his socks in his boots when he shifted, but finally, begrudgingly, Dean caved. "Fine."

Sam nodded appreciatively. "Thank you."

"So. How are we supposed to get her inside?" Dean inquired. He jerked his head in the direction of the girl. "You've seen her, she's skittish as hell. I don't suppose you have any bright ideas on how to corral her. Unless you plan on turning into Elliott again and phoning home with E.T. over there."

As if in response, Sam leaned and plucked something colorful off the ground. He held it up between his fingers for his brother to see. An empty candy wrapper; the same from before. Dean wore an expression of confusion.

"Actually, I do have an idea."