About the Story:

Title:In the Bullpen

Rating:T, for now. I'm not good at writing sex scenes, so don't expect anything graphic. There might be violence, but let's face it, Supernatural has violence.

Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own... that's right, Supernatural. I own nothing except the non-canon characters and creatures I add. THIS WILL HAVE SPOILERS! DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THE FIRST FEW SEASONS SPOILED, PLEASE!

Summary: The Winchesters have just avenged their family. They defeated Azazel after summoning him, and now they're trying to be as normal as possible. There's only one problem – the Trickster is back in town, and now he's bending time. What happens when the brothers get caught in the crossfire? Is it all a mistake, or is it meant to be?

Hannah Sommers and Emily Suffolk are two normal girls. They've never met before - not until the Winchesters came into their lives. How do they fit into the brothers' amazing prophesy?

Other:This story will have Tumblr, and I'll link it on my profile. :) Also, all author's notes will be at the bottom. I'll let you know if it's an important one.

In the Bullpen

Who will kiss my tears away?
You only made them fall
And it's crazy to hold on
What I'm holding on is gone
So now I'm closed for love

Chapter I / Closed for Love

The wind howled as she ran through the trees, and the sound was deafening to her ears. As she ran, she looked behind her with wide eyes. There was something coming after her. Her green dress flowed behind her and her dark hair whipped in her face. She had to keep moving – she couldn't let it catch her.

The wind speed picked up, and she sighed in relief when she saw the abandoned railroad tracks up ahead. Her house lay just beyond them. She ran as quickly as she could to the back door of her small house, but she didn't have keys. She tried turning the knob, but it wouldn't budge. She started pounding on the door. She knew he was in there.

"Hello? Please, let me in! Please!" she cried, but no one came to the door. She kept pounding on the door, crying for him to open it. "Dean, please! Open the door! It's me!"

She continued this after running around to the front door, but she stopped when she heard the snarling behind her. No, this couldn't be happening. She slowly turned and saw the terrible creatures behind her. There were two of them, she could tell, but she had never seen them so hideous before. She backed against the door, and let out a scream as they lunged toward her.

Sam gave a sharp gasp as he sat up, holding his head. Dean wasn't in the room, which was probably better. He had become such a mother-hen lately, and Sam didn't want the third degree. Still, the vision was sticking with him. The fear in the girl's eyes was haunting him, and he could have sworn he'd seen her face before… but where? He knew that he didn't know her, but he felt like he had seen a picture somewhere.

Dean came through the door and looked at his brother, and instantly Sam knew that he would start with his questioning. "Hey, you okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam said.

"Did it happen again?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, and said; "I think I know where we need to go next."

"Where?"

"Well, I'm not sure where exactly, but I know I've seen that girl before. I just can't remember where it was exactly," Sam said.

There was a long silence as Sam thought back to where he had seen the girl before. He remembered something about needing money, and asking Dean about the girl, and he told Sam to drop the subject. Just like that, Sam remembered where he had seen her. He went to Dean's bag, ignoring his brother's questions, and took out his wallet.

"Dude?"

Sam kept ignoring him, looking through the few pictures that Dean kept with him. Finally he found it stuck between two receipts – the picture of the short young lady with pretty brown eyes. In the picture, her eyes were happy as she wrapped her arms around Dean and smiled at the camera. There was no fear on her face this time – only joy. He held the picture towards his brother and Dean looked at him in confusion.

"This is the girl you saw?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure of it. She looked a bit older, but not by much," he said.

Dean looked like he had a difficult time swallowing this information. Sam never did get a straight answer out of him when it came to this girl, even though in that picture, he looked happier than Sam had ever seen him. Dean started grabbing their things and packing them into the bag.

"So we're going then?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "You saw her dying in your vision?" he asked. Sam nodded. "Well, I'm not going to let that happen. Let's go."

"Okay then…"

Sam grabbed his own things and followed Dean out the door. He needed answers about this girl. Why did the thought of her dying put Dean on a mission?

They had been in the car for three hours now, and Sam had told Dean everything he had seen in his vision. After hearing the story, Dean had grown quiet. The radio was blasting, and he was staring straight ahead at the road. His face was a perfect mask of no emotion, and Sam was filled with questions. When they passed through the state line, the radio played static, and Sam turned it off. He needed answers, and he needed them now. He was going crazy trying to figure out just how much this girl meant to Dean.

"So where does she live, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Worthington, Minnesota," Dean replied.

Sam nodded and paused for a moment. They were only about thirty minutes away right now. Hopefully that would be enough time for Dean to tell Sam his story, because he was going to get it one way or another. "So when did you meet her?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "C'mon Sammy, don't start," he said.

"Start what?"

"Don't start with the whole Dr. Phil, emotional analysis crap, okay?"

"All I asked was when did you meet her, Dean."

Dean sighed and his grip tightened on the steering wheel, but only for a moment. His stoic exterior was cracking, and he could see the worry lines on his brother's forehead. Geez, what the hell had he gone through with this girl?

"Look, it's a really long story, okay?" Dean said.

"I'm sure we have time. I'd just like to know what I'm getting into here," Sam replied.

Dean let out a tired sigh, and began the long story of how they met. "The week after you left for college, I kind of went off on my own for a while. Dad was being, well, dad… and I just needed some time to myself. I found a case in Minnesota…"

Late August 2001

The small town of Worthington, Minnesota was a quiet place. It wasn't a huge city, but it had a decent amount of people, and the people there seemed nice enough. Dean figured that out when he tried to check into the motel, and the manager's kindness was almost suffocating. He didn't feel comfortable staying there after he found out the walls were paper-thin, and he found an abandoned house off the beaten path. He got the electricity working at least. He didn't care where he stayed. He just needed some time alone – away from his dad's brooding and pouting, and away from the constant reminders of Sam. He just needed time to think.

Of course, he couldn't stop hunting. That was never what he wanted to do. He was different than Sam in that way. He enjoyed the job – the adrenaline – and he craved the danger. He liked knowing that he made a difference in the world – knowing that his time on Earth meant something. Dean was scanning the paper for cases when he came across a strange obituary. After looking at the calendar and aligning the obits, he knew he had a case.

There was a werewolf in town…

After taking his suit from the bag and cleaning himself up, he was ready to play the part of FBI agent. The access one little card could get you was amazing to him. He was twenty-two years old, and he could get whatever he wanted just by flashing a badge. He didn't know how he'd get by without it.

He made his way into the coroner's office with an attitude that demanded respect. He played the part well, because he knew it was all in the attitude. He knew that he had to believe his own lies or else nobody else would. So, in that moment, he wasn't Dean Winchester. He wasn't the son of John Winchester, and he didn't have a little brother who abandoned him and betrayed him by running away. Today, and for the rest of his time here, he was Agent Bob Plant of the FBI.

The office looked surprisingly empty. It was getting late – about 7pm – but normally the coroner was here well into the late hours of the night. Of course, it wasn't like the bodies were going anywhere. There was nobody at the front desk, so Dean took it upon himself to head on back through the double doors. It was as if the entire place was dead. Dean chuckled at his thought before continuing through the morgue.

"Hello," he said. His voice sounded like it was booming in the silence.

The sound of high heels could be heard clicking across the tiled floor, and he watched as a young lady turned the corner. She was carrying a tray of tools, and she had her lab coat draped over one arm. Her dress seemed to melt into her curves as she moved around the room. There was no way in hell she was the coroner, right? Talk about judging a book by its cover…

"Excuse me," Dean said.

She turned and finally noticed him, before jumping and putting her hand on her chest. She steadied herself and removed something from her head. She must've been wearing headphones the whole time, and that's why she didn't hear him.

"You're not supposed to be back here," she said. Her voice was heavily accented, and even when she sounded angry, it was a lilting tone. "I told you guys, I'm not allowed to give any information on these bodies. Have some respect for the dead."

Dean cleared his throat, and held up his badge. "Sorry miss…"

"Sommers," she supplied.

"Miss Sommers, I'm Agent Bob Plant. I was sent here to look into the deaths that have piled up over the past few months," he explained. "Are you the coroner?" he asked.

"No, I'm her assistant, but she isn't here. She's been gone for a few days."

"Did she give any explanation as to where she might be?"

"No, she didn't, but that's not uncommon. She's great at what she does, and she often gets called to other counties to help with the hard cases. She'll leave without any warning."

"And you take over for her when she's gone?"

She nodded and said; "I was getting ready to call it a night, but I can help you out…"

"So that's how you met? She helped you out on a werewolf case?" Sam asked.

"Yep."

"Dean, you don't often form a bond with the county coroners' we visit. What aren't you telling me?" Sam asked.

Dean ran his hand down his face and said; "I don't often question this life, Sammy. Well, not before dad died, anyway. I still wouldn't leave this life, because it's who I am, but when I was working on that case I started to question myself. I started to want something more than what I had. I started to think that maybe – just maybe – if you could leave the life then so could I. It was the only time I had ever felt that way, and it scared the hell out of me, so I had to leave."

"So you wanted to get out of the business, you wanted to leave it all behind, and you chose not to," Sam said. "Why?"

"Because, I was faced with a split-second decision, and I caved. I took the easy road. Dad called and said he needed help on a case. He wanted me to come back, and I didn't even question him. In the middle of the night I just left, with no explanation," he said.

"Did she ever find out about… you know, the hunting?" Sam asked.

Dean gave a humorless laugh. "Oh yeah, she knew."

2001

Dean was poring over case files, trying to figure out what tied the victims together. They were all men, and all of them had their hearts removed, but other than that – no dice. They were all random; different skin colors, different religions, different backgrounds. Not one man matched another. Were they dealing with a female werewolf who preyed on men, or a male werewolf who killed off competition? There were so many different possibilities, and they were all puzzling. He needed to figure out what the werewolf's motivation was before he could narrow down suspects.

In the middle of re-reading the first case – a thirty-three year old man who died in April – there was a knock on the front door. It wasn't a knock as much as it was a pounding. He thought the door was going to come down. He made sure he had his gun ready as he hurried to the door and looked out the peep hole. There she stood – Hannah Sommers, the coroner's assistant – and she looked incredibly pissed off. He didn't know what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn't her. He put the gun away and opened the door.

"Miss Sommers," he said.

"Save it," she replied, shoving him out of the way and walking inside.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Me? What am I doing? Look here, buddy. I don't know who you are or what your game is, but I am not going to be played for a fool, got it? You're not FBI, so satisfy my curiosity… who the hell are you?"

Dean sighed. "Look, it's not what you think," he began.

"No? Is it not what I think? You're damn right! I thought you were an FBI agent, here to help on a case, but I learn that you're not even in the system. You know, I could lose my job for this? I happen to like my job, thank you very much. So who are you, really?"

"It's a long story," he replied.

"You could start with a name," she said. "Bob Plant… you don't think it's a little suspicious to use Zeppelin's lead singer as your alias?"

She knew Zeppelin? Maybe she wasn't so bad after all. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you what you want to know if you'll just take a breather, and calm down," he said.

She frowned and said; "I'm calm, now start talking."

"My name's not Bob Plant. My name is Dean, and I'm not with the FBI, but I am legitimately trying to help," he explained.

"How?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You'd be surprised. I've seen some pretty strange stuff come into that morgue lately, so try me."

"Once I tell you, there's no going back. Once you know, you know, and you'll never look at anything the same way again," he warned.

"You have ten seconds to get talking, or I go straight to the police."

"Okay," he said. "The thing that's killing these men… it's not what everyone thinks it is. It's not a normal serial killer."

She narrowed her eyes, and said; "So you're like… special forces?"

"Not exactly. I wasn't sent here by the government. I don't think the government even knows that people like me exist, but this is what I – and others like me – do. It's our job, we hunt these things," he explained.

"What things?"

"All sorts of things," he replied. "Mostly nightmarish things. You know, uh… things that go bump in the night."

She stood there, staring at him like she didn't know what to make of him. She wasn't reacting like people normally do. The first reaction most people have is to call him crazy and insist that he's lying. They normally don't believe him until they see it for themselves. She wasn't doing that though. Her large brown eyes were looking directly at him, determined to catch a lie that just wasn't there. He could almost see her mind working overtime. She wasn't a dumb girl, by any means, but the smartest ones were normally the ones who refused to believe, even in the slightest.

"So, you're saying that whatever's happening to these men… it's something, supernatural?" she asked.

"It would seem that way," Dean replied with suspicion. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was waiting for the meltdown, or for her to pull out a cell phone and call the police on him. Instead, she just sighed.

"You've got to be an absolute nutter," she replied.

"Yeah, well, if you can't handle it, don't ask."

"Well what do you want me to say?" she asked. "I'd be insane to actually agree with you first thing."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not lying to you, okay? I am genuinely trying to help," he said.

"I do believe that," she said, which gave him a bit of a shock.

"After that, she helped me with the rest of the case. With her help, I was finished within two weeks," Dean said.

"So, she just believed that you were hunting a werewolf?" Sam asked, refusing to believe that for even a second.

Dean shook his head. "No, not at all. She was convinced I was a… how did she put it – a complete and total nutter?" he said, doing a poor mimicking of her accent.

Sam scoffed. "So, what finally made her believe that werewolves were real?"

2001

Dean was getting close to figuring out who the werewolf was. Together with Hannah, he had figured out what tied the deaths together, and narrowed it down to two different suspects. The similarities between the cases were that the men were all with pretty young girls when they died, and each girl had disappeared the same night. That wasn't in the coroner's report because the girls weren't on the table. It just wasn't important to finding cause of death. The kidnappings and deaths all happened within blocks of the coroner's office, which narrowed it down to Hannah and her boss.

Dean didn't think it was Hannah. She had been with him the entire time, and she hadn't turned once. She had gone to get them takeout from the local Chinese place, but she hadn't returned yet. She had insisted that he stay at her place, because staying in the abandoned house just wasn't practical. At least her house had heating and cooling. To be quite honest, it didn't take him long to agree.

He was getting worried, and he was about to call her when his phone rang. "Hello?"

"Dean…"

It was Hannah, and she sounded scared to death. "What's wrong?"

"I don't think I have any doubts about the werewolves now," she said with a hitch in her voice.

"Where are you?" he asked.

She sniffed and said; "I have no clue. The missing girls are here… some of them. I think we're underground somewhere."

"I'm going to find you," he said.

She didn't reply. The sound of a door opening – it sounded like an old and heavy door, with rusted hinges – and the line went dead after that. He grabbed anything he could that would take down a werewolf and left the house. He pulled out of the driveway as quickly as he could and was on the hunt. Like with any other case, he scoped out the city before starting his research. There were woods surrounding much of it, and it was perfect for hiding a werewolf.

He thought back to the phone call. He tried to put Hannah's frightened voice out of his mind, and focused on the other sounds that he heard. There was the sound of a rusted door opening – it was the noise a cellar door would make – and there was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, until he pulled up to a railroad crossing. It could have definitely been the loud whistle of a train. He followed the tracks until he found a place that could hide several people.

After thirty minutes of driving around, he found an old cottage-type house that had a cellar door to the right of it. It was right next to the train tracks, and it looked like nobody was home. He parked his car close to the trees and checked out the place. Once he determined that there was no one dangerous around, he walked carefully to the cellar door and opened it. The sounds of gasps and shuffling could be heard in the darkness, and he shined his light into the pit.

"Hannah?" he asked.

"Dean?"

Sam looked like he didn't believe a word of it, but he had never known Dean to lie about something like this before. "So, you stayed with her after the werewolf hunt?" he asked.

"I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"Aw," Sam said. Dean responded by punching his arm. "Ouch!"

Dean shook his head. "Look, she wanted to learn all about the supernatural, now that she had proof it existed. She was threatening to go off on her own, which would have gotten her killed, so I agreed to stay and help."

"You taught her how to hunt?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I taught her how to protect herself, on the condition that she would never go off on her own."

"So how long did you stay with her?"

Dean paused and looked reluctant to answer, before saying; "About a year... maybe a year-and-a-half. Then, dad called and said he needed help on a hunt, and I went back to the family business."

Sam's eyebrows rose considerably. "Wow. And you just left? You didn't even say goodbye?"

"I couldn't."

2002

Hannah stretched as she woke, and turned to curl into Dean's side. She was met with only the cold, bare sheets. Her eyes opened and she saw that she was completely alone in her room. She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. He was probably in the bathroom, or downstairs making toast or something.

She went downstairs and looked out the window. It was still barely light outside, but his car was gone. When she looked through the rest of the house, it wasn't just his car that was missing. His clothes, his hunting weapons, his cassette tapes... they were all gone. There was no presence of him left in the house. It was like he just faded away.

She went through every room, looking for something he could have left behind. The only thing she found were a rifle with salt rounds, and a pure-iron knife in the upstairs linen closet. She didn't touch them after that day. She couldn't.

She was being stupid, and she knew it. They had known this day would come - they had talked about it before. It was part of the agreement. Dean was able to go whenever, and she could break it off whenever she pleased. She reserved every right to kick his ass to the curb, and he reserved every right to leave whenever he felt the need to go. That still didn't make it hurt any less.

Over the months following his departure, she would see things that reminded her of him. She found that he had painted a devil's trap on the bottom of ever rug in the house. She left those where they were. He had stocked her house full of salt, and she spitefully used it for cooking instead of saving it for demons. She would hear a loud car engine and whip her head around to see if it was him, but it never was. She began to hate the strange cases that came into her morgue. She called all of them in to Bobby Singer - a contact Dean had left her with - but he had never sent him to check on it. It was always a different hunter.

She did see him, though... eventually. It was the one time she wished she hadn't seen him since he left. She was watching the news one day, when the national coverage spot covered a story from St. Louis. Police now suspect Dean Winchester, found dead at the scene of the crime, to be Emily's murderer. She tried calling him, and Bobby, to make sure the story wasn't true. She couldn't reach Dean's phone, but Bobby assured her that Dean was fine. Still, a phone call would have been nice.

She was beginning to think she'd never see him again. In time, that thought got easier to deal with, but it never felt okay.