Chapter 36 : Do It

Everything was a blur after I saw the blood on my hands. Meg was screaming. John was shouting. Sam collapsed, and Dean, Dean, was just staring at me as I fell backward into the altar as planned. I smelt the blood I had spilled from the bowl. I saw the demon's shadows cast against the wall, and just like that, Meg was gone. Out the window. Sprawled out on the sidewalk, just next to me, as I pulled my bag from the trunk of the Impala.

There was only silence behind me as I ripped open the bag of quick clot and lifted the sleeve of my shirt. I bit down on my lip. There was no doubt I needed a hospital. I knew the bullet was lodged. I could feel the hot metal searing every cell it touched, and despite the immense pain that shot down my arm, I clenched my twitching fingers into a fist as I dumped the coarse powder into the bloody hole to bide more time.

He shot me.

He actually shot me.

I didn't think he had it in him, but I was thankful that he did. Someone had to. I just couldn't shake the feeling that the hole in my arm resulted from a severely stressful situation and poor aim. Dean was a straight shooter, but the look on his face after he pulled the trigger didn't seem like the look of someone who had hit their target.

Every slur I could think of escaped my lip as I tried to pace off the pain. My eyes clenched tight, and I walked in small circles until I no longer felt the stream of blood racing down my arm. Even then, as I opened my eyes, I avoided the lingering stares around me. Only looking up to make sure Meg's body was still lying on the sidewalk and the demon in her hadn't walked away in her broken body.

It was the only victory, but I couldn't even relish in that.

Not when the real Meg Master's was more than likely dead, and I was next on the list, standing alone with the Winchester's who stood only a few feet behind me, watching closely as I tied off my arm with a bit of fabric I had torn from one of Dean's shirts. I pulled it tightly, wincing as I tried to knot it off with my teeth. I was thankful that he had at least gone for the left arm, but as he came into view, I wished he would have just shot me in the head.

"Dean, leave me alone," I muttered, turning my back to him.

I listened to him behind me, his heavy breath the only thing breaking the silence. I couldn't look at him. I hadn't looked at him. The last thing I had seen was his broken gaze narrowing on me as his bullet lodged itself into the muscle of my arm. I wasn't mad. I wasn't upset. I wasn't allowed to be. It was my fault, but even the fact that I was to blame for all of this didn't help that all I felt was numb.

It was over, and the only thing I could do now was wash my hands and walk away.

"What are you doing?"

I ignored him as I grabbed my bag from the backseat and started picking my things from the trunk. It was no surprise he was the only one trying to stop me. I had almost shot Sam, and there was no doubt in my mind that John wanted me as far away from his boys as possible.

"I said leave me alone," I muttered through gritted teeth.

I kept my head low as he finally pushed his way in front of me, standing between me and everything I had left. "I just shot you."

"Yeah, you did."

"Andi, look at me," he begged, but as I pulled away, his anger got the best of him. "Andi!"

My eyes shot up, taking in the redness that rimmed his own. It was dark, but the dim light from the street corner was enough to accentuate the glossiness of the tornado in his eyes. It took everything in me not to let the broken part of me out.

"What do you want?" I snapped.

"What do I want?" He gawked, his eyes widening in surprise. "What do I want? Are you serious? What the hell just happened in there?"

I slammed the trunk of the Impala and slid my bag over my good arm, and glanced back and forth between them all. Dean was angry and confused. Sam was barely conscience and John, that mother fucker, just stared at me like he was waiting for me to say something.

"Why don't you ask your father?"

His eyes narrowed at me, but despite my nose towards the old man, he didn't turn. I wasn't sure if he was afraid I would bolt if he turned around or if he just didn't care what his father had to say, but it wasn't going to be.

He wanted an explanation, and I owed him one. I knew that. Though I couldn't form the words without the burning behind my eyes, and if I let myself crumble in front of him like this, I would end up being pushed away before I could walk away. It had to be on me. I couldn't take him looking me in the face and telling me to leave. It was selfish, I knew that, but it was the only thing to keep me from turning.

"You promised me an explanation," he shouted, only inches from my face. I didn't even flinch. He wanted me to, I could tell by the way his eyes frantically searched my face. He wanted da reaction, and I was sure he didn't care what kind.

"Let her go, Dean."

My eyes snapped from Dean's to his father's, who had walked up behind him and gently gripped his arm. The pitiful swell in the bottom of my stomach filled with rage, and I dropped my bags to the ground before throwing every bit of energy I had left into the fist that clocked the bastard across the cheek.

"Andi, what the hell?" Dean shouted at me, his eyes watching his father stumble back.

Words didn't form, but I stared down at my bloody knuckles. I knew I hadn't been the one that ripped into his skin, but I hoped like hell that it made the bleeding scratches the daeva had gifted his scruffy face require stitches.

"You stupid girl," John chuckled, taking Dean's hand and pulling himself back up.

I was honestly surprised I had dropped him, even though I knew it was more from the surprise than the hit itself. I had been waiting to do that since the first time he locked me in a motel bathroom, and it felt every bit as good as I thought it would, even though I was pretty sure I had either broken or at the very least dislocated a few knuckles.

I turned and walked, but listening to John shout at Dean to leave me alone, brought my blood-covered boots to a stop in the middle of the road. I contemplated and then hesitated, but in the end, I turned around, dropping my bags as I made my way back to them.