Chapter Text
Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's been around. He's seen it all. Well—he surmises—mostly. But when the Winchester brothers barge through his front door on a hot summer afternoon, juggling something that startlingly resembles a girl between them, even he has to admit that he wasn't quite expecting this outcome from a simple beer run into town.
And he says as much.
"Holy balls of God Almighty," he curses. "You two can't even buy a couple of cases without something shedding blood. What the hell happened?"
The brothers are not mindful with her, and Bobby is about to bark at them for their carelessness when he sees the blatant look of urgency in their eyes, that their grips on the girl are slipping from the blood swathed like paint across her skin. Shedding blood, he realizes, is putting it lightly, because it’s already pooling beneath their footfall. In one quick movement, Bobby sweeps his arm across his desk, ignoring the crash of various century‑old tomes and empty whiskey decanters and other oddities as they litter the floor.
"Shit, boys," he says when they settle the girl down. "I ain't no army medic. Tell me something."
Sam is an open book, all shaking hands and wide, worried eyes, but possessing the steadfastness of a saint. Dean is different, a still sea on the surface with a raging tempest below, nothing but clenched jaws, popping tendons, and flashing eyes. But they are brothers, and they are Winchesters, therefore they feed off the others energy like a lifeline, hovering over the girl with the same sense of panic.
It's been a long time since he's seen it in their eyes.
And Bobby Singer has already guessed what has happened.
"She just appeared out of nowhere, Bobby," Sam says, raking fingers through his hair and streaking it crimson. "We tried to stop, but she just appeared out of nowhere."
"Bobby," Dean's eyes lock onto him, and the intensity within them reminds Bobby instantly of John Winchester. "She fell from the sky."
Bobby exhales with a gust. "Balls," he mutters, eyes sweeping over the girl, trying to make her out under all of the blood, and then his eyes widen as the seconds pass. "This blood isn't because of the collision with the Impala, is it?"
Dean smirks humorlessly. "No shit about you being a medic, huh?"
"Har–freaking–har, boy."
"Do you mind if we skip the pointless banter?" Sam snaps as he bends over the girl, leveling them both with a glower. The tremor in his hand vanishes the moment he presses his fingers to the side of her neck, and Bobby watches as the younger Winchester's ferocious goodness rears its head. "She's bleeding out at too fast a rate and her pulse is stuttering. We need to do something."
Bobby's gaze roams the length of her body. There is nothing discernible about it, other than she is only a little thing. Blood coats her hair, drenching her clothing until she appears nothing more than a small mass of dark, wet red. There is too much blood to determine its origin. Within an instant, Bobby is more horrorstruck than he has felt in a long time, and it surprises him because he is no stranger to blood or pain or death; it’s the aftershock of guilt a hunter feels when harming an innocent, however, that makes his paternal instincts flare.
He knows the Winchester boys inside and out, and he knows that they are feeling an innate sense of responsibility for the girl's state of being.
Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, Bobby sighs. "Boys, this girl is knocking on death's door. I don't think there's much I can do."
"We should have taken her to the hospital," Sam says, grabbing hold of her ankles. "Come on, let's go. It's not too late."
Something flashes in Dean's eyes, something that Bobby can't quite make out. The eldest Winchester's gaze flickers down towards the girl, his teeth clenching in something more synonymous to resolute than stubborn. His hands ball into fists.
"And tell them what, Sam? That she fell from the sky? That she's bleeding out but from no visible wound?"
"In case you haven't noticed, Dean, half of what we do is make up stories. She's going to die here if we don't do something."
Dean bristles, shoulders setting in the way they do whenever he gears himself up against the world. "We are going to do something," his gaze flickers to Bobby. "You with me?"
Bobby sighs again and feels something within him deflate a little. "I'll grab the first aid kit. You two peel off what clothing you can. Carefully."
He leaves the room to Dean muttering, "It feels like I'm seven and playing Operation all over again. Dammit, I sucked at that game." Bobby hurries to the bathroom cabinet, decade‑old work boots pounding against the wooden floorboards of his century‑old farmhouse. Dust motes twirl in the afternoon light, golden and lively, the complete opposite of how he feels.
Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's been around. He's seen it all. (Well, mostly.) After everything he's had to do to make the world a little less evil, after killing creatures that should only live in myths, after watching nearly all his comrades die in the process, Bobby knows that everything boils down to trusting your gut.
He wonders what Sam and Dean's guts are telling them.
He wonders if they know that trying to save her is nearly futile. That the girl will be gone much sooner rather than later. That it won't matter how or why she fell out of the sky. That although she is an enigma, she is one that is going to die no matter their attempts to keep her alive.
When he returns, a shredded jacket and shirt lies on the floor of his study. The skin beneath glistens red, dark with fresh blood that has not even begun to coagulate, but there are no puncture points. It's then that Bobby Singer realizes that she's bleeding from within, that he can't fathom how her skin seems to be seeping out her own blood.
Her chest barely rises.
Sam is bent over her again, eyes scanning and darting to discover some blood‑chocked orifice. Dean has his arms crossed, lips pressed, eyes hard and battle‑ready. His glaze flits over to Bobby for just a moment.
Blood drips over the corners of his desk, pooling around each leg.
Then, when Bobby treads towards the girl, she gasps suddenly, loudly, a piercing sound that stuns them all. Just like that, the weighty silence in the room is ruptured and three pairs of eyes lock onto her. She doesn't move, but when Dean hurriedly steps forward, Sam tensing, Bobby clutching the kit like a vice, her eyes spring open like she's been struck by fingers of lightning. She cries out, a sound so riddled with anguish it causes the hair on the back of his neck to prickle.
Within the moment between heartbeats, all three hovers over her, careful, muscles poised for action. Bobby still can't make out her features underneath all of the blood, but the stark contrast between her eyes and the crimson stands out almost like a harvest moon against night’s swarthy purple-blue sky.
They are bright and the color of honey.
And are filled with pure, unadulterated pain.
She clutches at her chest, crying out once again in agony. She grabs at her skin, whimpering as tears fill her eyes, the blood on her face dripping into her mouth and coating her teeth. Bobby's breath hitches in his throat, watching her fiercely rake at her heart.
Dean is the first to act.
He pulls her arms away before she hurts herself, hands swallowing her small wrists in a firm grip.
"Hey, hey, hey," he says. "Careful. Where are you hurt? What happened–"
She thrashes against him, cutting him off, crying out.
Dean's eyes find Sam's, and the look of panic they share is augmented by the helplessness Bobby feels when they both turn towards him. He swiftly sets the kit beside her, popping it open and tearing out bandages and whatever else looks of immediate use. White hot adrenaline rushes through his veins when she pulls from Dean's grasp and starts clawing at her chest again, fingernails digging into flesh, as though she's trying to pry her own heart out with her hands.
Dean struggles against her frenzied movement, struggling to keep her from doing further damage, struggling to keep from harming her. Then she stills, gazing up at the ceiling, tears trailing down her face, leaving a smeared pathway through the blood and offering a glimpse of her skin beneath. Her eyes lock onto Dean's fingers wrapped around her wrists, then slowly, painstakingly, follows them up towards his face. They lock onto him, unblinking, immovable.
Bobby watches, his heart trouncing his rib cage, nearly breathless.
He doesn't know what to do.
And then she speaks.
"Crowley," she says, voice barely a whisper.
And then she stills, eyes sliding shut, arms going slack in Dean's grip. She's gone as quickly as she came. Bobby remains as motionless as Sam and Dean, but his thoughts are racing and racing and racing. Then, three heartbeats later, Dean is laying her arms at her side and Sam's brows are lowering over his face.
"Holy balls," Bobby mutters.
Then Dean stiffens, eyes lighting with the appearance of having some sort of epiphany.
"Castiel," he shouts, voice gruff and angry. A look of determination fills his eyes, and then Sam's eyes, and Bobby Singer once again thinks that the world is a better place with them in it, his world is a better place. But Dean is impatient and grits his teeth. "Cas, come on. We need you."
They wait, breaths suppressed.
And then Bobby notices the stricken expression on Sam's face.
"Dean," Sam says quietly. "Look."
Their eyes meet and then fall onto the girl, who is even more still than before, whose chest has ceased to rise and fall. Sam is the first to look away, somberly casting his eyes to the floor. Dean is coiled, fist clenching and unclenching, bloodless and white and then full of blood‑blush.
Bobby sighs, not realizing he had held his breath the entire time.
There is a fluttering of wings, like that of morning doves, like that of descending crows, and Bobby feels the presence of an angel behind them. Being in the presence of an angel makes Bobby think of stepping one foot into warm sunlight and the other into icy water, never knowing which side will take over and not trusting when both merge as one.
"Sam. Bobby," Castiel breaks the silence, voice void of emotion and filled to the brim with gravel. As always, he knows what has happened without them telling him. As always, he speaks more to Dean. "Dean, I'm sorry. She's gone."
"Bring her back,” he responds, voice hard.
Castiel doesn't look away. "I can't."
"Bullshit. You brought me back from Hell."
"She's not in Hell."
"Cas," Sam says, almost hesitant. "She fell from the sky."
Castiel shakes his head. "She's not an angel."
Bobby nods towards the girl. "She said Crowley's name before she...well, before she bit it."
Castiel is silent as he gazes at each of them in turn. His eyes, bright and aloof, narrow infinitesimally when settling onto Dean. But when he glances at the girl, his chapped lips press together, something ethereal and otherworldly sparking within his gaze. Bobby shifts uncomfortably, not liking the way the angel is staring cryptically at her one bit, and decides that while he's been around, he clearly hasn't seen it all.
Finally, Castiel says: "She's with Death."
Dean scoffs. "No shit."
"No, you do not understand," Castiel reiterates, finality in his tone. "She's with Death. He's speaking to her now as I speak to you, just on an entirely different plane. One between this world and the afterlife."
Silence fills the room, weighty and utterly cold despite the summer's heat. Nobody breathes, nobody looks away from her. It is Sam, however, that regains his composure first.
"Is..." he begins, and has to recollect himself. "Is that normal?"
When Castiel responds, his eyes flicker towards the girl, then to Dean.
"No."