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Author's Note: S3 Dean, vaguely summer!time!Serena. Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy! :]

She's pale and quiet when it ends; sits on the Impala's bumper and watches it burn.

Shadows of flames dance across her face and Dean can't help it, he tries not to, but he wonders what she's thinking now, if she believes what she saw or if she's already rationalizing it, dispelling the unbelievable, deciding to never get off a bus when it breaks down again. She'd spotted him from the side of the road, followed him into the trees – to look around, explore, she'd answered with a wide smile and a toss of her long blonde hair when he'd demanded to know what she was doing there.

He'd told her to head back to the assembled group by the roadside, to the jitney, as she called it. But she'd grinned, said he was the most interesting thing she'd seen in hours - and she'd said hours like they were an unfathomable amount of time. She'd seen the derelict shack before he'd talked her into going back, she'd been fearless, called it adorable; inquisitive, wondered how could it have gotten here; delighted, had pulled out her phone to snap pictures.

It'd gone crazy then, the spirit; materialized directly in front of her and hurled her backwards into a tree, blood at the back of her head and not enough breath left in her to scream, dazed and disoriented, she'd dropped the phone. He'd reacted, rock salt to its face and a shovel to the dirt; but when was it ever that easy? It'd been a teenage girl once, killed by the side of the road, buried there too, and it liked to re-enact the drama; stopped cars, buses, took girls.

And one had walked right over to it.

He'd shot it before it had grabbed her again; didn't mean she hadn't gotten another really great look at the ghoulish figure. He couldn't leave her, couldn't send her back on her own.

Two hours later, the sun's setting, the baddy's toast, and the bus is gone.

"You okay?" He asks her, voice low.

She starts at the sound of his voice, looks away from the fire, turns her gaze to him and he's glad he can't see her eyes clearly; doesn't want to see new darkness lurking there, "Not really, no."

He blinks, unsure what to do about that. "You want… I can take you to a hospital…?" Well, he could drop her off and then peel rubber to get the hell out of the vicinity of a place with that many cameras.

"No, thanks."

He clears his throat, mumbles, "Okay…" and then stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I'll… take you home, then," he offers; thinks of Sam in a motel room a couple small towns away, reading books and researching that thing they don't talk about. He won't mind.

She's quiet for a beat and he tries to look like the best version of whatever it is she's seeing. The moment passes and she says, "Thanks." And then she gets up, moves slowly around the car and slips inside without further prompting, head low, arms wrapped around herself.

He pulls out onto the road and drives for almost five minutes in silence before asking, "Where to?" It comes out gruff, more serious than he'd meant it to.

Her head's bowed and she doesn't answer.

"My name's Dean," he adds into the silence.

Her face tilts towards him.

"You're not in shock are you? Concussed?" He asks her, but they're just words to fill this strangely unnerving silence. He knows what both look like and she's not either; and he doubts a girl who looks the way she does would know how to tell to begin with.

"We're still in New York." She says, not really a question.

And he shoots her a quick look, vaguely wonders where else she thinks they could be, "Yeah." He answers; her voice is lower than he remembers it from the woods, "You were headed to…?"

"Manhattan."

Of course. She had city-girl emblazoned from the top of her glossy hair to the bottom of her shiny high-heels. "We can get there in about an hour."

She doesn't respond for over a full minute; just watches him and he's about five seconds from snapping, What? at her when she says, "I should have called a car," the pitch of her voice is still lower than he remembers, the tone quiet. "It could of picked me up in less than an hour."

He's not sure if he's supposed to respond, so he doesn't.

"I didn't want to be that girl though, you know?" She sighs pulls her gaze from his face and lifts her bare feet onto the seat, "Now I'm the girl with a head injury who thinks she's going crazy and is in a car with some guy who could be a lunatic pyromaniac."

"There's aspirin in the dash."

Her head turns to him, slowly, "You burned down the shack."

"As insurance," he nods, glances the rearview mirror, its far behind them now; probably surrounded by cops at this point.

"You shot… that… something, that…" she trails off, rubs at her face tiredly.

He's quiet for a moment, waiting to see if she'll continue. But she doesn't so he glances at her again, it's dark now, and there're no streetlights yet to illuminate the inside of the car; nothing but the glow from radio. It illuminates half her profile, casts shadows over a face that's younger than he realized. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Her head tilts towards him again, arms wrapped around her legs. "Serena," she answers carefully, her gaze heavy on his face; he feels her examining him, making some kind of judgment call, and then she adds almost teasingly, "Baby."

It's a spark of the girl from this afternoon and he gives her a smirk. Then he asks her point-blank, "You wanna know what went down out there, Serena?"

She doesn't move for moment, doesn't even give an indication that she heard him, and he's about to turn the volume on the radio up when she lifts her chin, pushes hair back from her face and says firmly, "Yeah, Dean. I think I do."

And he thinks good for you.

He sets his gaze on the road, explains: ghost, patterns, bones, gotta burn'm.

She leans back in the seat, whispers: no way, seriously, holy shit, I need a drink.

She matches him shot for shot at some bar in some town off the highway she demands he pull off at. "No way do we wait till Manhattan after ghosts exist!" She mumbles, blue eyes wide.

He'd pointed out that she didn't look old enough to drink, that there was probably blood in her hair, if not leaves; and she'd pulled an ID and a hair-tie out of her pocket— she'd used the hair-tie to gingerly pull back that long hair into a messy knot that looked, well, really good and the ID said she was twenty-two years old.

"All set," she'd smiled faintly, put her feet on the dashboard and leaned forward on her knees.

It hadn't been what he'd expected her to do and he'd realized abruptly, that there hadn't been tears or hysterics or anything else you could expect from a girl who could've had a car come get her - he'd been surprised enough to forget to tell her to get her damn feet off his car.

"This is what you do?" She wonders, eyes a deep blue pool of questions.

"I do a lot of things, sweetheart."

He waggles his eyebrows at her, eyes on her mouth. He'd stopped treating her like a fragile porcelain doll when she'd persuaded the bartender to give them round #7 of shots on the house, with nothing but a sly smile, a curl of hair, and legs cross at an angle that had to be illegal—of course, she'd been sitting on the bar at the time, so there was that.

"Hm…" she rakes her gaze over his form unabashedly, tip of her pink tongue appearing to lick salt off her wrist, "Everything that… explosive?"

He leans in closer to her, tips his head and whispers in her ear, "Definitely."

She leans in closer, turns her face into his neck and as far as he can tell, this girl doesn't bluff. "Show me then," she murmurs against his neck.

And that pink tongue is on his skin then, her lips presses fast, hot kisses across his jawline; hands coming out to grab his shirt tight between fists. He leans back, kind of startled at the abruptness, and she's in his lap then, pulling him forward into her and he has to wrap his arms around her or risk them both toppling from the chair. She tastes like tequila and lime and something sweeter than you could ever find in a place like this and he pulls back, blinks at her, says softly, "Hey, hey…" and brushes strands of hair from her face, "You—"

"I could have died today," she says breathily, hands roving at his shoulders, neck, through his hair. She's moving too fast, he knows he should stop her; it's adrenaline and alcohol talking.

Except she put these fucking ridiculously high-heels on before leaving the car, walked across the parking lot in indecently tight jeans with more swing in her hips than a girl who'd just learned the supernatural existed had a right to have not to mention those jeans made her ass look—

The bartender shouts at them, bangs on the counter, and glowers, demands they get the hell out of there, "this isn't no damn motel room".

And it's barely enough to get her to lift her head, but it's enough to remind him he doesn't want to be remembered anywhere. And his companion sure as hell was somebody you didn't forget. He hauls them both up from the chair. She hangs against his side, both arms around his neck and when he goes to pay she chirps, "Oh I did that already," and waves at the bartender, "The bottle, Jamie. We're leaving now… bye!"

She'd sound delighted if she weren't too busy kissing the side of his face. There's a bottle handed to him by the bartender, a dark stare, and, "She paid for this."

Dean takes the bottle, nods, ignores the judgment he sees in this stranger's eyes and guides Serena outside.

In the parking lot she twirls away from him, long legs and swirling hair, and he thinks if she falls on the gravel he's just gonna leave her at the next ER.

But she doesn't; she holds her arms up and tilts her head back and turns so gracefully and smoothly he wonders suddenly if she's even really drunk. "Do you kill ghosts a lot then?" She wonders, spinning towards him, "Not ever Casper the Friendly Ghost though, right!" She demands.

The parking lots empty, stars in the sky hidden behind dark clouds; and reaches for her, she comes into his arms willingly, clings tight. "Hate to break it you, sweetheart," he smiles, can't help it. She's beautiful. "But no such thing as a friendly ghost."

Her smile falters, fades away. "Oh no," she whispers pitifully, tears filling her eyes suddenly.

"Whoa, hey, don't—"

"That's horrible," she whispers and a tear drips down her cheek, "How sad for you."

He's trying to have a thought when she's kissing him again, soft and warm and he's barely gotten the taste of her again when she pulls away, twirls away from him. "Maybe you just haven't met'm yet!" She offers brightly, eyes on the night's clouds.

He follows her; a little dazed and smiling softly, "I've met a lot of'm," he says quietly.

She sits on the hood of the Impala and his smile falls away, "Sweetheart, those shoes and my paint job, no." There are some things you'll care about till the end.

She giggles, extends her feet. "You can have them!" She says grandiosely, makes no move to get off. Dean approaches her. The shoes are beige, you can see her toes through a hole at the end of them, painted neon pink. "And I can have that," she adds, holds her arms out for the tequila bottle. Her balance wavers and she tips over, stops herself from falling with a hand to the Impala's metal.

He laughs a little, shakes his head and hands it to her. "You're a little bit of a mess," he says fondly.

There's no giggle in response and he looks up from where he's slipping her shoes off, she's staring off into space, bottle clutched tightly in her hands. "Hmh," she mumbles after a beat, uncaps the bottle and takes a swig directly from it.

She gasps and grimaces and he's got both her shoes in his hand now. "Let's get you home, okay? It looks like rain—"

"Are they everywhere?" She wonders, blinks at him and takes a shuddery breath, "All the time? Do they follow you?"

He stares at her. She looks even younger now, the knot her hair had been in, coming undone, wisps of blonde hair fluttering by her face; lips puckered worriedly, eyes wide and fastened on his face like he had all the answers.

He doesn't. At least not anything, she'd want to hear.

"They won't follow you," he soothes, sets the shoes on the Impala beside her and holds his hand out. "Come on. I'll carry you around and take you home."

She takes his hand, but pulls him forward instead, his knees bump the car, and her face comes closer to his. "You saved me."

He nods a little, doesn't mention she wouldn't have needed saving if she hadn't wandered – he's getting the feeling this girl can't not wander.

"Oh, you have freckles," she says wonderingly, her fingertips touch his nose lightly.

He pulls back a little.

"Thank you," she continues and her fingertips touch his lips; she leans in closer, but tilts her face and presses a kiss to his cheek.

It's a sweet gesture, too sweet, and… no. He disentangles his hand from hers and straightens, clears his throat, "Yeah. Sure." He steps back. "So Manhattan—"

"Oh," she mutters.

He stops.

She shakes her head, "Oh…" She leans back on the hood of the car and tosses her head back, inhales deeply and then she screams, "Fuck!" At the nights sky before fastening stormy eyes on Dean's face. "This is a dream," she declares before he can say a word.

He presses his lips together, thinks he feels a rain drop. "No such luck, sweetheart."

"I'm… unconscious? Delusional? Feverish? On Punk'd?" She lists, "You're a doctor? Janitor? Nurse? Production assistant?"

"Good tries." He smiles a little; definitely rain. "You're drunk enough to forget it if you want." People do it all the time.

She sighs, takes another gulp from the tequila bottle. "No, you saved my life." She says it plaintively, like it's something obvious; and then pats the Impala beside her, "Come tell me about it."

He arcs his eyebrows, "You were there."

"No," she giggles, "About being a real life ghostbuster." She explains, again as though it were the most obvious thing.

"It's not exactly like that…" he doesn't mention there's more than just ghosts.

She pats the car again, scoots back and lies across the windshield, legs stretched out in front of her. "Tell me…"

He frowns a little, he hates when Sam does that. "Let's get inside, it's started raining and…"

"And?" She prods, eyes slipping shut.

He shrugs, "You'll mess with upholstery if you get in after you're wet."

She smiles, wide and slow, whispers, "Feel the rain on your skin…"

"Sweetheart, look. I'm sure… this's been… weird for you—"

"I was so bored this morning," she giggles.

The rain's coming down a little more steadily now and he leans his hip against the Impala's side, looks down at her. "You always this friendly with strangers?"

"Hm, yes." Her eyes slit open a little, just a hint of blue between lashes.

"I could be a lunatic pyromaniac. You should be more careful."

"Who kills ghosts." She adds, watching him.

"Yeah."

"Do you like it?"

It's a sincere question, soft and honest, and he answers in the same way, "Sometimes."

She shifts towards him on the car, near the edge, her arm pressing against his stomach, "You saved me." She offers him the tequila bottle.

He smiles, touches a curl of her hair gently, "That was good, yeah." He takes the bottle.

She smiles, pleased; and then her eyes close again, "What's not good?"

He takes a swig from the bottle, feels it burn on its way down. The rains cool on his head, his face, releases some of the summer heat, "Me, sometimes I'm not good. Can't save everyone."

"Nobody can be good always or do everything," she says sagely, "Not even Blair."

He has no idea who that is, but it makes him smiles, she makes him smile. He tucks the curl of hair behind her ear, "Well that's good to know…" he murmurs.

She opens her eyes, stretches up towards him, "Kiss me." It's not a question.

The rain's plastering her hair to her face, making her lashes clump together, water beads on her lips. She licks them off and he sets the tequila bottle on top of the Impala's roof, is drawn to her. She hooks an arm around his neck, presses herself against him and she's kissing him, hot and deep, moans a little when he wraps an arm around her tugs her a little closer.

"Shit," he breathes, "Just… tell me… you're… in college."

She giggles against his mouth; arching and shifting on the Impala, crawling closer to him, "College…" she flutters her lashes at him, "Could be fun…"

"Not what I…" She bites his bottom lip and his breath hitches, "Meant."

"You're my favorite ghostbuster," she whispers, wraps a leg around his waist.

He laughs, "Thanks, baby."

"I mean it," she insists, arms around his neck, "We're all wet."

"Wet really works for you," he teases, a hand sliding under her shirt, another into her hair.

She laughs, "You too, it—ow!" She starts in his hold, flinches.

He freezes, "What—"

And she brings a hand to the back of her head, gaze dropping from his face, says, "Ouch…" softly.

She sways towards him the slightest bit then and he feels like a jackass, she's not twenty-two and she's not in college and she's had too much drink and met a ghost who introduced her head to a tree trunk.

He sighs roughly, pissed with himself. "Sorry," he says quietly, brings his hand down to her waist.

She leans towards him and rests her cheek against his shoulder, smiles at him- sweet, trusting. "It's okay… you're my hero."

He huffs a laugh, "Okay then. Let's get out of the ra—"

"Really," she brings a hand around and touches the tip of his nose, "I'm not easily impressed, you know."

He smirks, "I am pretty impressive."

"A hero." She whispers, hooks her hands together behind his neck again.

He stares at her, all wet and cuddled against him and he wonders aloud, "What if I didn't want to be a hero? What if I just wanted to be like everybody else?"

"Hmh…" she closes her eyes, "You'd still be an amazing kisser."

He laughs, low and real, "Back at you, sweetheart."

She nods against slowly, and Dean opens the car door, gives his baby a mental apology for getting her interior wet.

And then he shifts his arm behind Serena, turns her a little and cradles her against, slides an arm along the Impala's hood, under her knees.

"You could be whatever you want, you know…" she says, nuzzles her nose against his neck, holds on to him as he shifts her into his arms, "I know…"

"Oh yeah?" He carries her around carefully, her legs swinging; they're both dripping now and he can't seem to really care. She warm against him and smells like spring and something expensive.

"M'not who I used to be," she confesses.

He leans into the car, settles her on the seat, "No?"

Her eyes open and she smiles; beautiful, he thinks again. "M'different now, new."

"There's no time."

She laughs softly, like he's made a joke. "Time? No…" silly, is implied in her voice, she touches her forehead to his, "It's about you, not time."

She kisses him again then, before he can respond, and he lingers there; thinks she goes into the category of people he's happy to have met, the category he'll wish he could see again; before pulling back, meeting her gaze, "I'm going to take you home, Serena."

She beams at him, "I know," touches his cheek, "I'm going to watch Ghostbusters when I get there."

.fin.