stilljustandrew | [Detroit!AU: the first to come was a fair maid]

Its gaze swings to him and locks there. The hound gives no sign of comprehension other than a low growl, and takes a step toward them.

Meg is tugging frantically at his arm. "I can't run anyway, but I'm not leaving you here with that thing -- please!"

She flicks a sharp warning glance over his shoulder at the hovering henchman.

This could all go bad quickly if Wells causes a scene. They're ready to move fast, in public or not, but it'd be better to not have to take the risk.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lets her tug him a step backward.

"Okay," he says, very low. "My room. I've got supplies, we can maybe hold them off till backup arrives. If we can get there."

She barely manages not to roll her eyes.

Finally.

"Okay," Meg says, forcing a small quaver into her voice. "Okay. Whatever you say. Now can we please just go, get away from it, please?"

She pulls at his arm again, and takes another step back.

The hound watches, still growling, but makes no move to follow.

He moves with her, toward the stairs, step by slow step, not taking his eyes off the hound.

It's not chasing them. It's more ... like it's standing on guard.

What's it guarding? -- no. Time for that once they're away.

As they start to climb, the hound below turns its head so that it can continue to keep track of them with its baleful glare.

Meg glances over her shoulder as if to check her footing. Instead, her glance goes to the shadows at the top of the stairs, and she gives a small nod to the second henchman, standing half-hidden there with a dark cloth in his hands.

Be ready.

('Rex' stands waiting on the other side in the hallway, just out of sight.)

Andrew's eyes are fixed on the hound in turn.

"Okay," he says, low, about halfway up the steps. "It's not following us. We might be okay once we get to the hallway."

Beat.

"Uh, by the way." Half-smiling. "I'm Andrew."

"Oh, good--"

A few more steps, and then she smiles too, bright and sharp.

"Hi, Andrew. Nice to see you again."

Beat.

"You can call me Meg."

Again --?

Andrew twists to stare at her, eyes widening.

Her smile is edged with malicious triumph.

"Gotcha."

She snaps her fingers, and as the second henchman and the hound in the bar below rush the stairs, the first one leaps forward, clearly meaning to throw the cloth -- now revealed to be some sort of sack or blanket-- over his head.

Stairs blocked corridor blocked no room to get past her oh frith no --

He moves a half-second too late, trying to body-block the henchman off-balance enough to avoid the cloth, hoping to get past him and run.

He's partly successful.

The henchman stumbles, and the cloth misses Andrew's head entirely, going around his arms and upper body as his assailant grapples at the his torso instead.

Snarling, 'Rex' charges from his guard position in the corridor to block the potential escape route, and the other henchman takes the rest of the stairs at a flat run, throwing himself forward to grab at Andrew's legs and lift his weight from the floor.

"Get him to the room." Meg's tone is cold and frighteningly intent. "Hold him there. Don't let him touch anything."

the room, what room, what are they --

He thrashes, heaving against the cloth binding his arms, the hard grip on his legs, and draws in breath to scream for help.

"Oh, I don't think so. We'll have none of that."

This time it isn't her elbow that makes contact. It's her fist, as she drives a short sharp punch into his gut.

A curt word sends Rex dashing ahead to keep the hallway in front of them clear, while the second hound brings up the rear, defending their flank. Meg keeps pace beside the two men carrying Andrew as they move into a section of the corridor that's in the process of being rebuilt.

There's an open doorway up ahead on the right. A second look reveals that it's open because the door that once hung there appears to have been blasted from its hinges, and is now leaning against the opposite wall.

The punch drives the air from his lungs in a single agonized rush, and he jacknifes in his captors' grip, folding around the pain.

It's probably why he doesn't realize where they're going until they're already hauling him through the splintered doorway, with its lintel twisted out of true.

"Guard," she orders the hounds, and one immediately takes up a stance in the open door, the other at the paper-patched hole in the wall.

There's a small scorch mark on the floor, at the center of what used to be inscribed circles. The two carry Andrew to that spot, then shift their positions. The second unceremoniously drops his feet to the floor, then takes a tight grasp on his right arm and shoulder as the first whips the blanket off and tosses it aside before gripping his left arm and shoulder.

Meg stalks across the floor and looks Andrew right in the eye. "There's no one left in this part of the building to hear you if you scream, but I don't want to put up with the noise. Be smart. Don't try it."

She's holding a piece of chalk in her fingers.

He pulls against the grip on his arms, without much force, testing.

"What do you want," he asks her, low and tight enough to just barely keep his voice from shaking.

Their hold on him doesn't relax in the slightest.

Meg smiles.

"What do I want? Why, you, of course."

A beat.

"You should be honored, you know. There aren't many that have His personal regard the way you do."

Andrew goes still, and very cold.

"Whose."

(He knows exactly who she means. It's all over his face.)

Meg's smile brightens. There's something almost worshipful in her eyes, but it's clear it's not for him.

"Don't be so modest," she murmurs. "You're being Called, Wells. Remember that."

Her expression hardens.

"Although you could have saved all this trouble if you'd just accepted His offer last time. Or even if you'd just come back to stand by Sam when it all started."

A beat.

"Oh, wait. I guess you didn't exactly have that option, now did you?"

Andrew's breath hisses in his teeth.

"I don't know what you think you know about that," he starts, "but --"

"You mean about how brave, noble, self-sacrificing Sammy Winchester came back to fight the good fight without you?"

Sarcasm drips from each word as she laughs in his face.

"Oh, sure, he was stubborn, I'll give him that; he held out for months, but once everything went down in Detroit ..."

Meg shrugs, and her smile is murderously delighted.

"Exactly as He planned, all along."

The building anger falls out of Andrew's face, along with most of the color.

"Came back to fight."

It's raw, and barely more than a breath.

"He fought?"

Meg stares at him.

"You didn't know?"

She shrieks with laughter, clapping her hands together as she spins around in a circle, unable to contain her rapture.

"Oh, this is just too much! Sweet little Sammy left his only sanctuary," she mocks, "trying to keep everyone safe from harm--"

She stops in place and darts a fierce grin at him.

"--and then his best friend didn't even realize what he'd done."

Andrew barely hears her. He looks more stunned than anything else.

You came back to fight. You came back to fight.

You didn't give up --

(Somewhere deep inside him, a constricted knot of grieving anger is slowly, painfully, starting to ease.)

He pulls in a ragged gulp of air, his head dropping forward as though it's suddenly too heavy to hold up, and mumbles something low and broken-sounding -- too low, in fact, to make out the words.

"What's that?"

She prances closer, bending forward a little and cupping one hand behind her ear as if to help herself hear, as she taunts,

"Come on, Andy, I know you can do better than that-- after all, I know just how loud you can scream--"

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