You boys be careful, Bobby had warned them, handing them a list of names. They’re vicious sonsabitches.

Her name was first on the list.

It had taken both of them to get her tied securely to the reinforced chair sitting in the center of the Devil’s Trap they’d painted on the floor. She had nearly chewed through her gag and there were rope burns on her wrists and ankles. She glared at them through a tangled frame of long blonde hair, her chest heaving with labored breaths, and Dean had to remind himself that somewhere deep inside, an innocent woman was trapped. And it was up to them to save her.

He looked over at Sam, who was sweating with the effort of the last several minutes and staring at the demon with a funny little expression on his face. “What is it?” Dean asked.

Sam took a moment to answer, then heaved a heavy sigh and looked at Dean. “Nothing,” he said. Then he added as an afterthought, “I guess.”

Dean knew that “I guess” and headed off at the pass what he knew was coming. “Come on, Sammy,” he said. “Don’t start getting soft on me. You’ve seen her in action. You know she’s evil.”

Something flickered in Sam’s eyes, then he nodded reluctantly. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.” Then again, with a terse nod, “You’re right.”

Dean grinned. “Of course I am, dude. I’m always right.” He turned to the demon, who was digging her nails into the arm of the chair and glaring at him with fresh hatred. “An evil bitch is an evil bitch. Even if she is wearing…” His voice trailed off as he spotted something he missed. He took a step forward, into the Devil’s Trap, and reached out his hand.

The demon jerked back, struggling against her restraints, trying to avoid his touch. But there was nowhere for her to go and a growl tore from her throat as Dean bent to pluck the cross from her skin.

“Huh,” he muttered, flicking his eyes up to meet the demon’s. “That’s a neat trick.” He dropped the cross, then straightened. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

The demon growled again and Dean watched in amusement as her perfect, white teeth finished the job on the gag. The two halves of it fell away and the demon spat out the piece in her mouth, then ran her tongue slowly over her dry lips. She smiled and Dean nearly shivered at the sight of it. He stepped back outside the Devil’s Trap to put some space between them.

“That cocksucker Al Franken put you up to this, didn’t he?” the demon asked, her sudden calm a little unnerving. Dean liked them better when they struggled.

“Who the fuck’s Al Franken?” he asked.

Dean heard Sam sigh next to him—one of those sighs Sam reserved for when Dean was missing something obvious. Dean gritted his teeth and refused to look at his brother.

“Saturday Night Live, Dean,” he heard Sam say.

Dean couldn’t help but look over then. The look of resigned patience on Sam’s face set Dean’s teeth on edge. “Huh?” he said, irritated.

Sam arced one eyebrow. “Stuart Smalley?” When Dean wrinkled his brow in confusion, Sam sighed again. “‘I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and—’”

“‘—doggone it, people like me!’” Dean grinned. “Oh, yeah. Loved that guy. Whatever happened to him?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Demon Bitch. “I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen to him,” she said. “And to you, too, fucktard, if you don’t untie me.”

Dean looked over at her, saw her glaring right at him. “‘Fucktard.’” He smiled. “Didja hear that, Sammy? I’m a fucktard.” He laughed. “I’m totally using that one.”

The demon snarled. “You’re a mouth breather. That’s what you are,” she said. “One step above primordial goo.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in evolution,” Sam said and Dean looked over at him, saw his brother smiling. He knew that smile, too, and saw the glint in Sam’s eyes. Oh, hell no. His little brother was gearing up for an intellectual debate.

“Well, if there was ever proof that Man evolved from monkeys, Short Bus here is it,” said the demon.

“Hey!” Dean protested. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

But no one was listening. “You call yourself a Christian, right? Ever read the Bible?” Sam asked the demon and Dean could tell his brother was just warming up. “Ever hear of the Antichrist? ‘And he was gifted with a mouth that could speak great and convincing things and blasphemies—’”

“I’m the Antichrist?” the demon asked, then laughed—a shrill, grating sound that reminded Dean of a hacksaw on rusted metal. “I’m the Antichrist? Please. We all know who the real Antichrist is. It’s—”

“Al Franken?” Dean interrupted, proud that he was following the discussion even a little.

The demon’s eyes flitted to his and he shifted uneasily under her gaze as she looked him up and down. “I was gonna say Bill Clinton,” she said. “But okay.” Then she leered at him and wiggled in her seat, the already short skirt of her black cocktail dress riding up. Two inches higher and they would find out if the woman she was possessing was a natural blonde. “You know,” she said, “you’re kinda cute. If you weren’t so fundamentally stupid, I might just let you fuck me.”

Dean sneered at her. “Yeah, well. If you weren’t so fundamentally an evil-fucking-bitch, I might just let you suck my dick.” Then he smirked. “Oh, wait. You’d probably bite it off.”

The demon’s eyes flicked to his crotch, then back up again. “I guess it’s true what they say,” she said. “The smaller the brain, the smaller the penis. It wouldn’t be worth my time.”

Dean smiled coldly as he reached into his inside pocket and secured his fingers around the flask of holy water. “Sam,” he said evenly, still looking at the demon. He heard Sam shuffle a little closer to him. “Are you ready to send this bitch back home?”

“I’m ready.”

“Good.” Dean pulled out the flask and slowly untwisted the cap. Then he swung his arm out, flicking his wrist sharply, aching to hear the sizzle of the water against the demon’s skin.

But nothing happened. Well, nothing except for the formation of a majorly pissed-off expression on the demon’s face. No sizzle. No smoke.

“What the hell?” Dean looked at Sam, then at the flask in his hand. This was the right one, wasn’t it? He took a sip. Yep. Water. He flicked more water at her. Nothing.

The demon licked her lips and smirked derisively, quirking one eyebrow. “Water?” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re gonna throw something in my face, at least let it be gin.”

“Uh, Sam?” Dean asked, sotto voce. “What the fuck?”

“Um…” Sam said, and Dean saw his brother digging in the inside pocket of his own jacket. “Here. Try mine.”

Dean did, with the same result. Which, really, was no result at all. Finally, he just walked over to the demon and dumped both flasks on her out of frustration. Still nothing.

But it did get a rise out of her. “Watch the dress, Einstein. It’s Prada.”

“Hey, the devil wears Prada,” Sam said and giggled.

The demon wasn’t amused. “Another genius,” she muttered.

Dean was still trying to figure things out. She had to be a demon, damn it. No human was that evil. “Try the incantation, Sam,” he said, hands on his hips.

“But, Dean—”

“Just try it!” Dean snapped, frustration pricking beneath his skin.

“Okay!” Sam cleared his throat. “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis…”

The Bitch (it was just easier to use her real name) started laughing. “Latin? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She snorted. “Here’s some Latin for you. Ucking-fay etards-ray.”

Dean flipped her off.

Sam recited the incantation until the end, then stopped, the absence of his voice loud in the silence. Dean looked over at him, found Sam staring at The Bitch with his mouth hanging open. And she called me a mouth breather, he thought, then shook it off. Focus, Winchester. He knelt down next to the demon’s chair.

“Dean—” Sam said.

“There’s gotta be something,” Dean muttered under his breath, ignoring Sam. “Something.” Starting with her left leg, he began scanning her for whatever it was that was protecting her. He took off her shoe.

“Be careful with those. They’re Manolos,” said The Bitch from above him.

Dean looked up at her. “Manolos, huh?” He had no idea what that meant, but apparently it was important. He fished in his pocket for his lighter and popped it open. “Then I guess I shouldn’t do this.” He flicked the flame to life and touched it to the heel. It took a few seconds, but the fire finally caught. He watched the heel begin to melt, watched the demon’s face flicker behind the waves of heat, and smiled. “Oops.” Then he tossed the shoe into the fireplace.

He went back to inspecting her leg, carefully examining from the bottom of her foot all the way to where her barely-there skirt hugged her thighs. “If I was a binding link, where would I be?” he said softly to himself, waggling his eyebrows at her as he slid his hand between her thighs. He traced his fingertips across her skin and swore he felt her press against him.

He looked up at her. “Don’t flatter yourself, honey. I like my women human.”

“Dean.” Sam again. “I think she is.”

Dean winked at her. “That,” he said, “remains to be seen.” He slid his hand down her other thigh, then withdrew his hand, relieved to still have all his fingers. He started scanning her right leg.

“Dean—”

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean said as he reached her ankle. He took off her other shoe, tossing it into the fireplace to join its mate. “If she’s human, she’s got nothing to worry about.”

Dean scanned her arms, then her neck, then straightened, frowning down at her as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Find what you were looking for?” she snarked.

Dean tilted his head to the side and arched one eyebrow. “I’m not done looking yet.” He dug out his knife from his coat and slid the blade open. Taking a step closer, he pressed the tip of the knife to the top of her dress, right against her cleavage. “This might hurt a little.”

He felt Sam’s fingers close around his arm. “Dean,” Sam said right next to his ear. “Don’t.”

Dean pressed the knife a little harder against her and heard a tiny sound escape her lips—a sound like a whimper—and saw the thin edge of fear in her eyes.

He laughed as he pulled the knife away. “She’s human, all right,” he said. “Sort of.”

Sam let him go and Dean heard him let out his breath. “Like I said,” Dean said to him. “She’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Well, not from us, at least,” Sam said, laughing. “As for Hillary Clinton…”

Dean whistled. “That’s it. A couple of bikinis—” He pulled a face, thinking about Hillary Clinton in a bikini. “—a little mud. Could be interesting.”

“Nah,” Sam said. “It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Slinging mud is her specialty.”

Dean looked at his brother. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “You’re right. We need something else.” He thought it over a minute, then snapped his fingers. “I got it! How ’bout we make her listen to Bill Clinton’s autobiography on tape? The unabridged version.”

“I’d rather open a vein,” she said from the chair.

“Go ahead,” Dean said, the smile slipping from his face as he looked at her again. “Do the world a favor. I’ll even let you use my knife.” He tossed the knife in the air, catching it by the blade, holding the handle out to her. She glared up at him, eyes narrowed, flicking from the knife to his face. Then he smirked. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a little tied up at the moment.”

“What’s the matter?” she spat at him. “Your mommy didn’t hug you enough as a child?”

Dean lunged at her, flipping the handle of the knife back into his palm and holding the blade against her throat. He barely heard Sam yell his name, barely felt Sam’s hands on him. His face was inches from hers and he could feel her breath against his lips.

“Say that again,” he said to her. “Give me a fucking excuse.”

Her eyes widened a little, then she smiled. “You won’t do it,” she said. “You don’t have the balls.”

Dean pressed the knife in a little harder, saw the skin give a little beneath it.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was right behind him, low and even, and he tugged on Dean’s arm. “Dean, come on. Let’s go.”

Dean felt his nostrils flare as he breathed out through his nose, the grain of the knife handle cutting into his palm. Sam tugged on his arm again and Dean relented, stepping back a little. He dragged the tip of the knife slowly down her arm. “You’re a soulless bitch, you know that?” he said, slipping the knife under the rope binding her wrist and cutting it through with one quick motion.

She shrugged, rubbing the back of her now-free wrist on her skirt. “It’s a living,” she said.

*

“I know, Bobby,” Dean said into his cell phone half an hour later. “I don’t believe it either. But it’s true. Ann Coulter is human.”

He clicked off a minute later and looked over at Sam, who was scratching Ann’s name off Bobby’s list. “Who’s next?” Dean asked, slipping his cell phone back into his pocket.

Sam looked at him and smiled a little, a tiny kernel of satisfaction glittering in his eyes. “Bill O’Reilly.” Then he grinned. “Then Rush Limbaugh.”

“Rush Limbaugh,” Dean mused, trying to place the name. “Isn’t he that chubby fucker on the radio?”

“That’s him,” Sam said.

“I thought so.” Dean sighed. “We’ll have to rent a trailer, then. ’Cause he’s not gonna fit in the trunk.”