Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own the Winchesters, but take full credit for Emily or any other characters.

AN: This takes up where Inner Demons leaves off. After being possessed, Emily is looks to Sam and Dean for answers. She joins them on the hunt for a werewolf…I know this summary sucks, just read and review, okay? J

Chapter 1: Carsick

The setting sun shot long fingers of light across the backwater, Illinois road and glinted off of the chrome detailing of a '67 Chevy Impala. The car sped down the highway like a spokes model for one of the Speed Network's classic car auctions, leaving a handful of spectators in its wake.

However, the vehicle's awe-inspiring qualities were lost for the moment on the nineteen-year-old in its backseat. Emily Russell pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the endless row of party-colored hardwoods whiz past. Bad idea she thought and squeezed her eyes shut with an involuntary moan.

"What's the matter, Princess? Carsick?" Dean's voice floated from the driver's seat.

Emily straightened and spied the eldest Winchester's chiseled features smirking at her in the rearview mirror. She hadn't thought it possible that someone she'd only known for a week could get under her skin the way Dean did, but he somehow managed. He was a cocky smartass, and unfortunately, so was she.

"No," she lied quickly and glanced back out the window. The truth was, she had never been able to ride in the backseat, even as a small child. The first time they'd stopped for gas she'd secretly bought three bottles of Pepto-Bismol and took swigs of the chalky, pink liquid when she thought the boys weren't looking. It didn't help that they slept in the car, even at night she could swear she felt it whipping through turns. She would give anything for a bed, even a cheap, lumpy hotel mattress.

Crap, she was staring at the trees again and her stomach flip-flopped in protest. Fighting the urge to gag, she turned to face the interior of the car, stretching her legs across the seat in front of her and leaning her left temple against the leather seat. She stared at the toes of her boots, a safe, unmoving, non-nauseating view, and smiled faintly. They were her favorite boots: supple black leather with decorative, brown suede scallops at the very pointed toes. She felt a pang of homesickness; her grandparents had given her the vintage-style cowboy boots to her for Christmas the year before. Her father loved to tease her about them, he always said that the pointed toes were only good for killing cockroaches in the corner.

Her father. She remembered the day she'd left home, the day she'd found out the truth about her father, and suddenly she didn't feel so homesick. She still wanted to know what had happened to her that day and the desperate thirst for knowledge had spurred her actions. She knew the Winchester brothers were the only ones who could help her find some answers.

"Now, where are we going again?" she asked, wanting to forget her personal problems for a moment.

Sam turned sideways in the seat in front of her so that he could see her. "We're going to Hartsburg. There have been a series of 'dog' attacks in the past couple of weeks, really nasty ones. But, they only occurred on the full moon. Once the new moon started to wane, the attacks stopped."

"So we're thinkin' werewolf," Dean finished casually.

"Werewolf?" Emily arched her eyebrows speculatively, not quite believing them.

Sam offered her a smile across the back of his seat, sympathizing with her disbelief. "I would doubt it too if I hadn't seen one for myself."

Emily shrugged, after all, just a few days ago her body had harbored a vengeful demon, bent on destroying her entire family. "How long has it been since you dealt with one?"

Dean chuckled bitterly. Let's see…I was eleven. We were in Cali, and Dad told me to watch Sammy, said he would kill it himself."

Emily didn't miss the sour look that crossed Sam's face at the use of his nickname.

"Anyway," Dean continued, ignoring his brother. "He only managed to flush it out and it came right for us. Lucky I had silver bullets in my .45, or the women of America would have been robbed of yours truly."

Emily leaned forward and smacked him lightly on the back of the head. "Hey!" he grabbed at his head, checking to see that his messy spikes were still to his liking.

"Thanks," Sam snorted. "I can't ever get away with that."

Emily laughed out loud for the first time in days, but instantly regretted it because the action tightened her stomach and threatened to expel her meager lunch. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat once more, taking slow, deep breaths.

"Hey," Sam said quietly ", We can swap if you want, I can ride in the back."

Emily opened one eye and smiled weakly. "You don't have to do that." She appreciated Sam's gesture, but didn't want to admit to being sick. Or rather, she didn't want Dean to know. He would never let her live it down.

"What's all this whispering shit?" Dean asked, slapping in Sam's general direction.

"We're planning a coup," Emily said.

"Whatever, just wait to tie me up and gag me after dinner." He turned so that she could see his profile and grinned wickedly. "I thought me might stop at the Waffle House up ahead."

Emily groaned.


Two hours later, Dean turned the key and pushed open the door to their motel room. They had indeed stopped for dinner at Waffle House and stuffed themselves with yet another greasy, heart-clogging meal. Well, he and Sam had. Emily had only managed to choke down half of her order of hash browns before excusing herself to the restroom. She hadn't said, but he knew she had barfed up what little she'd eaten that day and admired her attempt to look dignified as she rushed through the dining room with one hand to her mouth. He had decided to do her a favor and had eaten her grilled cheese before she returned. It was just as well that she hadn't finished her meal, Dean wasn't feeling so hot himself at the moment and seriously doubted the freshness of the cheese.

He flicked on the light and stepped into the room. It wasn't great, but pleasant. There were two double beds with pink spreads and a table in between with a phone and lamp. The carpet was standard cheap motel green, but looked freshly vacuumed, and the wallpaper was a floral print on a white background. A door to the right led to a bathroom and a large cabinet against the left wall housed a TV and VCR.

Emily entered behind him and set her blue duffel on the first bed. "Okay Sam," Dean called over his shoulder. "We'll flip a coin to see who gets to bunk with the Princess."

Emily straightened from where she'd been pulling things from her bag and turned to Dean, hands on hips. "First off, do NOT call me princess," she shuddered as she said the offensive word. "And second, you were the one who insisted on getting one room, so I get this bed to myself, you perv."

Sam tried to hide his smile from his brother as he entered and began unpacking his own bag. Said brother was just standing there, looking shocked at Emily's words. Dean had always been the lady's man of them two of them, so Sam was thoroughly enjoying the abuse he was receiving from their passenger.

Finally Dean scowled and flung his bag at the foot of the bed he and Sam would share. He and his brother had slept in the same bed many a time when they were younger, so that wasn't really the issue. He couldn't believe a girl was rejecting him. "Fine," he muttered, grabbing one corner of the bedspread and ripping it off, sending Sam's stuff flying. "But you better keep your skinny ass on your own side."

"Love you too, man," Sam grumbled as he picked up his bag and the clothes that had ended up on the floor.

Emily chuckled under her breath and laid her 44-magnum lever action on the bed and began searching for her pajamas. Not for the first time, she wondered how she had managed to end up in a hotel hundreds of miles from home with two near strangers. Not to mention they were in Hartsburg to investigate a werewolf! Sam had assured them that they had two nights until the full moon in which to find the cursed individual and put a stop to the attacks. Thus, they were allowed some time to 'relax' and sleep in real beds.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her tank top but kept digging, becoming puzzled. She knew she had brought her pjs… "Oh crap."

"What's wrong?" Dean looked up to see Emily standing over her bag, a rather panicked look spreading across her face.

She looked up, panic turning to embarrassment. "I…um…I don't usually sleep in real pajama pants and I was in a hurry to pack. I kinda forgot them," she bit her lip, all traces of cockiness gone.

Ha ha Dean thought. He now had the upper hand. "We don't mind if you sleep in underwear, do we Sam?" His voice dripped with innocence, but his grin was down right evil.

Sam rolled his eyes and to his brother's horror, tossed Emily a blue and red plaid bundle he'd pulled from his bag. She unfolded the bundle to reveal a pair of boxers and frowned doubtfully. "Don't worry, they're clean," Sam reassured.

She gave them an experimental sniff just to sure and smiled with approval. "Thank you Sam." Then turning to Dean ", At least one of you is a gentleman."

Dean glared at Sam as Emily took her makeshift pajamas and locked herself in the bathroom. "Nice going, Professor Higgins."

"Wait," a disbelieving smile began to creep across Sam's lips. "You actually know who Henry Higgins is?"

Dean was suddenly doing a remarkable imitation of Emily's earlier sleepwear panic. "No, of course not."


When Emily emerged from the bathroom wearing her tank top and Sam's boxers, she found the Winchester brothers were already tucked into their bed. Sam was flipping lazily through the TV channels and Dean lay on his side, facing her, reading a beat-up leather bound book.

"You read?" she asked, turning down her own bed.

He looked up rather solemnly and closed the book. "It's our dad's journal. I was just looking for any…clues he might have left behind."

She knew they were searching for their father, but so far they hadn't offered up any details. "How long has he been gone?" she asked, and saw Sam's head whip around to listen to his brother's response.

"Too long," Dean muttered and clicked off the lamp.


Emily opened her eyes and instantly felt the coldness pierce the thin fabric of her nightgown. She looked down at her feet to them bare and wiggled her toes against the dirt floor. An invisible gust tugged at her hair and she raised her head to view the interior of an expansive and dark warehouse. Rubbing her arms, she took several tentative steps forward and was startled when a spotlight came shooting down from the ceiling.

As though taking the light for a cue, a shadowy figure stepped into the beam and Emily tensed, dreading what would happen next. "You know who I am," the figure spoke in that familiar voice that she just couldn't assign to a face. "And I know what you seek."

She was tired of this nightly game, of the cryptic messages contained in her dreams. "Then why don't you tell me," she fired back, feeling colder than ever.

"Gladly," the figure stepped aside to reveal a second, this one not shadowed, but clearly visible. It was her mother.

"Mom?" Mrs. Russell, who had been standing perfectly still, started at the sound of her daughter's voice and began backing away.

"No, stay away!" she shouted, putting up her hands to shield herself.

"Mom, wait!" Emily stepped forward, reaching towards her mother. Then suddenly, Emily's hands were sliding around her mother's throat, and they were squeezing. Emily gasped in horror, but she couldn't let go, couldn't stop strangling the woman who had raised her. "No! No!" she began to scream, but to no avail.

The shadowy figure laughed from somewhere in the darkness, a terrible sound, and Mrs. Russell fell limp in Emily's hands. "No!" she screamed again. "No! Mom, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! No!"


Dean wasn't sure who was screaming, but he knew that it had awakened him. In an instant he was upright in bed, the six-inch knife he'd tucked under his pillow in his hand. Sam mumbled something groggily beside him, but he wasn't listening. Quickly, he located the source of the screaming and lowered his knife.

Emily was thrashing in the other bed, yelling the words ", I'm sorry," at the top of her lungs. She was having a nightmare, or rather night terror, just as he'd seen Sam have them hundreds of times.

"Emily, wake up!" he called and jumped up off of his own bed. She continued to wave her arms frantically, her screams becoming louder. Sighing, he sat down on the edge of her bed and took hold of her shoulders. "Emily, its just a nightmare. You've gotta wake up," he shook her gently.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open and he could see them glittering with tears and anguish. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she was almost begging for forgiveness. She broke down into sobs and he pulled her shaking form against his chest.

"Shhh, it's okay," he murmured, rubbing her back soothingly. Her let her cry, not caring that her tears soaked the front of his T-shirt, and rocked her gently. Her sobs died down into hiccups with the occasional sniff mixed in, and she eventually drifted off to sleep in his arms. "It's okay, I'm right here," he whispered into her hair, and leaned back against the headboard. She fits right in he thought wryly. As if two with nightmares wasn't enough…