Wayward Son

Chapter 18

Ruthie had doubted Sam at first, but his confidence had started to convince her. She'd begun to hope. He did know Dean best, after all. She'd expected Monica to vanish in a puff of smoke, or dissolve into green slime, or at least fall onto the bed and twitch. Instead, the knife coated in Ruthie's blood had had as much effect as a paper cut.

Incontrovertible proof. Dean didn't love her.

She should have been forming a plan, pumping Monica full of bullets, getting Dean out of there, something. But the weight of that realization, the finality of it, closed in on her. Half-set cement oozed around her, held her in place. Her hopes, so recently set afloat, sank beneath the thick sludge.

The proof he didn't love her shone a spotlight on her own heart. What had driven her into that lumber mill last year? What had given her the strength to forgive him for Reeds Spring? Why was her heart shattering right now from the pain and guilt marring his face?

If only the requirement had been for the lifeblood of the person who loved the victim. Then Monica would be dead. It would all be over.

Monica's voice broke through the cement. "Well, you two really messed up my night. Time for Plan B." Her lips curled back, and she hurled herself at Sam.

A blur of blue silk knocked him backwards. His head smashed into the wall. He crashed to the floor and lay there, looking dazed, while she crouched over him and opened her mouth. Her pink tongue emerged, a long, thin spike sprouting from its tip. She leaned over Sam, aiming for his throat.

No. Not Sam, too.

Ruthie fired two shots into Monica's side. Two black holes appeared in the nightgown, and Monica staggered sideways. Her head whipped toward Ruthie with a hiss. She straightened up and came at Ruthie with slow, deliberate steps. Ruthie backed away, firing. She was halfway into the kitchen when the revolver clicked—she was empty. Monica kept advancing despite the dark bullet holes now dotting her torso. She glanced down at the bandana tied around Ruthie's left arm.

"You were wrong," she said, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. Her arm flashed out, backhanding Ruthie across the face.

The blow wrenched Ruthie's head to the side and launched her backwards through the air. She smashed into the fridge and landed in a heap on the floor. Her pulse throbbed in her mouth; blood spattered the front of her shirt.

"Do yourself a favor and stay there," Monica said. "Let the grown-ups handle this. I'll deal with you later."

She didn't see Sam behind her. She turned, and he punched her square in the face. Her head snapped back; she caught her balance with a backward step, and threw herself at him. They fell to the floor near the foot of the bed, rolling, grunting, swinging.

Just beyond them, Dean pushed himself up from the chair and swayed, squinting at them as though he couldn't quite make out what was happening. He stepped forward, reaching down as though he wanted to help, then bent double and clutched his head in his hands, grimacing.

Dean wasn't going to be able to help Sam. Ruthie was his only backup. And she was no physical match for a monster. She still sat slumped against the refrigerator. Her mouth throbbed; warm wetness slid down her chin.

Something was pressing into her lower back. She reached behind her and folded her hand around soft leather. The notebook. She yanked it out and opened it, flipped through the handwritten pages, searching for something, anything.

A crash from the other side of the kitchen bar made her jolt. One of them must have hit the other with the lamp from beside the bed. Monica snarled; Sam let out an oof. Dean stepped forward again, but his legs gave way and he crumpled beside the bed. On his knees, he squeezed his head tighter and groaned.