Ramble On

Chapter 1

November 2006, Nebraska

The jukebox played softly in the corner, but the bar and tables were almost empty. In the wan sunlight that came in through the grubby windows, the mismatched tables and chairs scattered through the room looked old and scarred; the ceilings were stained and grimy from the combination of years of cigarette smoke and soot from the woodstove, and the slightly warped and cracked timber boards of the floor threw odd shadows, revealing their distortions even without the telltale creaks of being trodden on.

Ellen Harvelle, proprietor and part-owner of Harvelle's Roadhouse, stood behind the bar, a lean, tanned woman in her forties, maple-gold hair loose over her shoulders and framing a strong, square face. In jeans, a low-cut tee shirt and soft flannel shirt half-unbuttoned over that, she radiated a no-nonsense vibe that tended to kill barroom arguments before they got started, one look from the sharp, whiskey-brown eyes letting everyone know who the hell was in charge in the ramshackle bar. She was polishing glasses and pretending that she wasn't waiting for a call, despite the fact that her eyes swept over the black phone hanging on the wall every five minutes or so.

At a table mid-way between the u-shaped bar and the ancient pool table, Dean Winchester rubbed his eyes and set down the last of the papers he'd picked up in town. Slouched back in the chair, his broad-shouldered frame half-sprawled into the gap between the tables, the stained and torn jeans, muted plaid shirt and dark brown leather car coat he wore couldn't disguise the tension, almost invisible but not quite, that surrounded him. Not a person to mess with, it suggested. He looked young, except for his eyes. Short, dark hair was spiky under the overhead lights, the tips a little lighter. Green eyes, wary and too old for the rest of him, were framed in long, thick lashes. High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave his face a dark menace in repose. He could look charmingly boyish when he smiled, but the smiles didn't come that often and they lit up the green of his eyes even less.

On the other side of the table, his brother's face was lit by the laptop's screen, Sam's slightly olive-toned skin painted with the reflections of the sites he was skipping through. Thick, dark chestnut hair flopped over his forehead, almost covering his brows. Taller than his brother, he shared the same broad shoulders, wide chest and cleft chin, his eyes hazel, sometimes more green, sometimes more grey, quiet and watchful but without the hard-edged suspicious nature that characterised his older sibling.

Glancing up briefly at Dean's noisy and frustrated exhale, Sam tapped the screen. There was something in Hemingway, about three hours away from the roadhouse. Something that looked like their kind of thing.

"Sixteen people so far, Dean," Sam said, reading the news report half under his breath, hitting the facts out loud. "Hospitalised, dead within a week."

Picking up the almost-empty beer from the table and finishing the remainder, Dean leaned back in his chair and tried to summon some enthusiasm for whatever it was that Sam had found. "Why were they hospitalised?"

"Chronic fatigue, low red blood cell count, anaemia … ah, one guy had lost forty pounds in the space of a week, he went in looking like a skeleton." Sam looked across to his brother, frowning. "Sounds like a shtriga, but they don't attack adults, only kids."

Dean shook his head, and straightened up in the chair, absently rubbing a hand along the day's growth over his jaw as he searched his memories for anything that matched the list. "Yeah. Although, that one we killed did go after you when the kid was safe."

"It's not quite the right MO." Sam looked back at the laptop. "What else drains life?"

Pulling the leather-bound book from his coat pocket, Dean opened his father's journal, and started flipping through the pages. He knew every page by heart, and he knew that there was nothing in there that fit, but he looked anyway. Reading through John Winchester's journal was a ritual that kick-started his memories, his knowledge, more readily than anything else.

Werewolves, ghosts, wendigo and demons and vampires, skinwalkers, shape-shifters, the book was like the compendium of any good horror writer, a record of the years his father had been hunting in the dark, the diagrams and notations probably enough to keep a shrink busy for years.

"Nothing in here, anyway," he said, closing it when nothing jumped out at him. "Is it just me or are we finding more and more monsters?" He picked up his cell from the table. "I'll see if it rings any bells with Bobby."

The bar phone rang and Ellen snatched up the handset. "Jo?"

Sam scanned the hits returned for anything that could match the symptoms he'd been reading about. The problem with the internet, he thought as he waded through pages and pages of technical medical opinions, was not a lack of information but too much. And too much that was garbage. He ignored the two telephone conversations going on to either side of him, his attention sharpening as a listing caught his eye, tucked in between a discourse from a doctor at Princeton and a research article from a CDC medical team in Africa.

He opened it, his eyes widening as he read fast down the page of information.

"Okay, thanks, Bobby." Dean closed the cell. "He can't think of anything that fits either, but he's gonna look."

"I think I've got something here." Sam turned the laptop around. "Look at this."

Dean leaned forward and scanned the page quickly, then returned to the top, and started reading the detail, his brows drawing together. The blurb at the top claimed the site belonged to the U of M's Anthropology Department, which was in the process of scanning in many mythological texts and ancient documents from around the world. He read through the details of the mythological creature much feared in Eastern Europe for its debilitating attacks on entire towns.

"Bloodwraith." He looked at Sam, brows raised. "Who knew?"

"I haven't heard of a real one before either, not in this country." Sam swivelled the laptop back to face him. "It's a legend. There's no real lore about it, let alone a set of instructions on how to kill it."

"I guess we can start with silver; that works with regular wraiths. Then we work our way through everything else if it doesn't." Dean rested his elbows on the small table, his eyes becoming a little distant as he mentally reviewed what they had in the trunk of the car. "Iron, salt maybe to trap it, stake through the heart, decapitation."

Sam looked around as Ellen's voice rose suddenly. "Jo Beth Harvelle, you'll do no such thing!"

The brothers exchanged a glance. When Ellen took on that tone, it was time to go.

Sam closed the laptop and slipped it back into the leather satchel. Dean gathered the piles of papers and tucked them into his father's journal. They stood, Sam finishing his beer quickly, and following Dean out as he left the bar. They could still hear Ellen, even after the front door had shut.

"So, Hemingway?" Sam put the laptop in the back of the Impala. Dean nodded, leaning past to drop the journal there as well. He walked around to the driver's side and got in, turning the key as his brother eased his long frame into the passenger seat.

"Wonder what Jo was doing to get that reaction?" Sam grinned suddenly.

Dean shook his head. He didn't want to know. Jo was a kid. She'd done alright with the ghost of the serial killer, although she wouldn't've if he and Sam hadn't been there as well. The time between when she'd been taken and when he and Sam had finally found her had changed his view of her for good. He'd been as scared of what Ellen would do to him if he'd lost her daughter as he'd been of the ghost killing Jo before he could get there. She had plenty of enthusiasm, he thought, a little disparagingly, but too much to prove – to her mother, the memories of her father, even to him, he'd thought at the time. It made her careless and the one thing no hunter could afford to be in this life was careless. His father had drummed that into him and Sam from the moment they'd been old enough to understand.

It took a little over three hours to drive to Hemingway, and the two motels in the little town were both shut tight when they arrived. They found a discreet parking spot behind the gas station, and Sam climbed into the back, shifting around to find the place where he could almost, but not quite, stretch out. Dean settled down along the front bench seat. The Impala's interior was a little over six foot in width. Perfect for him. Not so much for his little brother who'd insisted on growing the extra inches.

As the night's chill sucked the last of the lingering warmth from the car, Dean clenched his jaw against the thoughts that screamed around the same track they always did when he had nothing to do, no distractions and too much time to think. His father's voice had been low but clear. He hadn't explained. The order had hit Dean like a sledgehammer and when he'd jerked back and looked up at the man he'd followed and obeyed his whole life, he'd seen his father's despair, hidden a moment later, but there. Nothing could've convinced him more thoroughly that it was real.

He didn't know how to deal with it. Didn't know what he was supposed to do. The effort of keeping it inside, a torturous secret that was cracking through his years' of armour, was impossible, spinning him from anger to desolation and back to disbelief every hour, every minute he couldn't shut it out. It was poisoning him, poisoning his thoughts and feelings the longer he tried to hold it in.

You never considered actually making that deal, right?

Your dad lives a long life … we're just setting the natural order straight … he's not supposed to be down there …

No, Dean thought, swallowing hard. He wasn't supposed to be there. But he was. And the only reason he hadn't made the deal for his father was the knowledge of how disappointed in him they both would've been.

When dawn came, two and a half hours later, Dean groaned and flung his arm over his eyes as the morning light slanted in. He rummaged in the glove box by feel for the sunglasses, fingers scrabbling past a gun, a pile of identification clips and tags, a bunch of rags, finally closing on the earpiece and snagging them. He slid them onto his face and sat up slowly.

"Think the motel will be open now?"

Sam grunted noncommittally from the back, sitting up and trying to unkink himself. He felt like a pretzel. At six foot four inches, he was just that bit too long for the otherwise spacious interior of the car. He should have slept sitting up. At least then he wouldn't have half a dozen cricks in his neck and back.

"Let's try it. I need coffee."

"Yeah, I hear that," Dean agreed, sliding over to the driver's seat and turning the key. The engine rumbled into life, and with only a minor fishtail leaving the gravel, the black car headed into town.

Dean walked into the small hospital feeling the four hours he'd missed more than the two and half hours of sleep he'd finally gotten. He looked around, and saw the front desk, giving the pretty receptionist a big smile more from habit than inclination. She smiled back, round cheeks dimpling at him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

If I wasn't so tired, he quipped back to himself. "Can you direct me to the intensive care ward?"

"Yes, sir," she said, her expression suggesting she was disappointed that was all he needed. "Follow the corridor to the end and turn right. It's at the end."

"Thanks." He hesitated for a moment, then decided against getting more personal. Sixteen people dead already, they had to get moving. She'd still be there when the job was finished and if he got a few more hours sleep before then, he might even be able to follow through.

He turned away and followed the directions, finding a nurse's station in front of the ward's doors. His first view of the head nurse sitting there told him she was not going to be susceptible to his smile, he thought, looking at her. He decided to go with the usual procedure, adding what he hoped was an ingratiatingly harmless smile as well.

"Hi. I'm looking for Dr …" His gaze skimmed over the files on the desk. "… Mason? Is he on call today?"

The nurse looked at him coldly, her expression disapproving and implying that she'd heard every possible excuse under the sun from those who tried to take up the doctor's valuable time. "He's doing rounds. I don't know exactly where he would be in the hospital. You can wait, or come back."

Dean's smile faltered. "Uh … I'll come back."

Heading for the turn in the corridor, he thought about giving up and trying again later, when a high-pitched buzz sounded from behind the desk. The nurse leapt to her feet, and ran into the ward. Looking around for anyone else to respond to the emergency, he hurried back to the desk, reaching for the files in the rack beside the computer, and pulling out a handful, his gaze skimming the names. The intercom burst into life above him.

"Code Blue. Dr Mason to ICU. Code Blue."

He took the top two files, hoping that neither belonged to the patient who was crashing, and ran down the hall, finding a janitor's closet at the first turn. He wrenched open the door and ducked inside as the sounds of running feet and the rattle of a crash cart went past.

Thumbing the switch on his flashlight, he opened the first file and started to flip over the charts, looking for the admission details.

Distantly he could hear the raised voices of those in ICU, giving orders, the machines beeping and buzzing. He found the listed next of kin and tucked the flashlight under his chin while he dug out his notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his coat. He took down the details and closed the file, opening the second one. He was about to start writing when his cell rang, the deep bass notes of the call tune loud in the silent closet.

Dropping the flashlight, file and book, Dean scrambled to get the damned thing out of his pocket before the whole hospital knew he was in here.

"What?" he whispered furiously.

"It's me. I found something," Sam's voice was strangely unexcited. "Where are you?"

"I'm in a hospital closet, dude. I've got the names of the families of two of the patients."

"Well, put the files back and forget about it," Sam said flatly. "The bloodwraith's been destroyed. Case over."

"What? How? Who did it?"

"I'll tell you when you get back, at least what I've found out." Sam hung up.

Dean looked down at the mess at his feet. Sonofabitch.

Twenty minutes later, Dean wriggled the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open. Sam sat on the edge of one of the beds, staring at his laptop, his expression resigned as he looked up.

"Okay, so what happened?" Dean dropped his keys on the table and walked to the small fridge in the kitchenette, pulling out a beer.

"Seems like another hunter was here yesterday and finished the job," Sam told him, shrugging.

"How do you know? Who was it?" Dean sat down at the table. Sam pointed to the newspaper sitting on it, the local paper, the morning's headline above the fold.

"Warehouse fire kills one," Dean read, picking it up and unfolding it. "Fire started around 6 p.m. … blah blah … one body found … blah blah … police have no leads … blah blah."

He looked up. "What makes you think this is connected?"

"Look at the story below it."

Looking down, he read through the second story, half under his breath. "Mystery Illness Over. Patients recovering … doctors baffled …" Rubbing a hand along one side of his jaw, he glanced back at his brother. "At least one of those patients crashed this morning, it's how I got the files."

"Might have been too far gone," Sam suggested speculatively. "But the fire definitely took out the wraith – did you read to the end?"

Dean looked back to the paper in his hand. At the end of the story, there was a small note about a strange stain covering the floor near the body.

"You think the hunter ganked the wraith while it was feeding?"

"Too late to save the poor guy it was feeding on. Yeah, that'd be my best guess." Sam sighed. "Sorry, Dean. A long way to come for nothing."

"That doesn't matter," Dean said distractedly. "Any ideas on who might have done it?"

"Nope. Even the fire is being called accidental." He closed the laptop and slid it back into the leather satchel beside him. "Ellen might know?"

"Awesome. Back to the roadhouse?"

"Might as well."

"Yeah, well, we're paid up 'til tomorrow and there's a hospital receptionist with my name on her so you're on your own tonight, little brother."

"What a surprise."

It was past midday when they left Hemingway and almost dusk when Dean pulled into the dirt parking lot of the roadhouse with a grunt of disgust. It was more than half-full and his usual parking place was gone. He manoeuvred the car around to one side of the weathered building, and turned off the lights and engine.

"So now what?" Sam glanced over at him.

"Let's have the night off. Get a drink, play some pool, just let it go for one night." Dean closed his eyes, feeling an odd mix of physical weariness and mental disappointment drop over him. "What do you say?"

"Didn't we just have a night off?"

"Uh, you might've been resting last night, but I wasn't," Dean told him, opening an eye and rolling it around to look at his brother.

"It wasn't work, Dean."

He laughed. "All in the way you look at it." He straightened up in the seat, pulling the keys out. "C'mon, a couple of beers, shoot some pool … see who's in town."

"Okay with me." Sam got out of the car. "You're buying."

Dean snorted. "Loser buys."

Getting out of the car, he thought that they were overdue for a break. At least they could have a night off before they found something else, another case, a new thing to hunt. The previous evening hadn't been quite what he'd wanted, although eventually he'd managed to shed the tension he'd been living with long enough to sleep for a few hours. The roadhouse was different.

He'd thought, after spending some time there, that it would be a place he could relax, not have to lie. He'd found that he had to lie more or less all the time. As a group, hunters were eccentric and individualistic and most were more suspicious of each other than the regular citizenry. Even Ellen and Jo tended to play their cards close to their chests if there were more than two or three in the place. Following Sam through the creaking door, he slowed and blinked as they walked into the bar.

The place was almost full, every table and seat taken, the pool table surrounded three deep. They looked around and caught Ellen's eye. She waved and pointed to the end of the bar near the wall.

Finding two empty seats there, they sat down as Ellen brought them a couple of beers.

"What happened?" Sam asked, gesturing around at the room, his voice raised over the music from the jukebox and the droning hum of conversation as he accepted his. She nodded, smiling a small one-sided smile as she surveyed the room.

"Yeah, might make some money this week." She turned back to them. "Most of them are just passing through," she added, lowering her voice as she leaned closer and looked at the pool table. "By midnight we'll be back to near empty again."

"Where's Jo?" Dean asked, seeing a couple of girls weaving their way through the crowd, aprons over tight jeans and trays swinging precariously over the customer's heads.

"In Moline, working a haunting," Ellen told him sourly.

"You tell her how much she could be making back here?" Sam asked, looking around the room.

"I told her that if she didn't get her butt back here pronto, I'd reconsider the whole partnership deal," Ellen said. "No idea why that girl wants to get involved in a life that got her daddy killed," she added, her gaze shifting to Dean.

He looked away, feeling the unspoken question but disinclined to get into that. He didn't believe his father had done anything to endanger Ellen's late husband, but he couldn't quite find the arguments that would disprove it either.

"How'd the job go?" Ellen asked a moment later, obviously deciding to leave the topic alone.

"A bust, someone else beat us to it," Dean told her, taking a long swallow of his beer. "You hear of anyone working it?"

She nodded, her glance wandering around the room. "Heard Ellie was there," she said, looking at a bunch of men sitting at one of the tables on the other side of the room. "Jeb said they met her on the highway, a couple of hours ago."

"Ellie who?" Sam asked, his brow creasing up. They'd met maybe a dozen of the hunters who regularly frequented the bar, to exchange news, pick up packages that were delivered here, or just decompress from the pressures of the world they worked in. There were very few women working successfully at hunting. The ones that were tended to be known.

"Don't know her last name," Ellen said, making a sharp gesture to one of the girls to see to a table. "I ran into her on the tail end of a hunt a couple of years ago, with Jeb and Marcus, and she was young then. Smart though, and well-trained. Some kind of family problem, when she was kid, kick-started her. She comes by here, not very often."

She turned away as her name was called, gesturing toward the rear hatch of the kitchen's servery. "You boys tell Ash what you want to eat."

They nodded as she headed for the other end of the bar, and looked around the room, playing the usual game of trying to spot the hunters in the mix of people sitting at the tables, surrounding the jukebox and pool table, leaning against the bar.

Sam leaned in through the hatch and hailed Ash. He turned around and lifted his spatula in a wave that, Sam noted with an internal grimace, sent droplets of oil across the kitchen. The smell of sizzling patties and onions was strong and he held up two fingers, Ash nodding and turning back to the grill.

"Computer genius, math whiz and short-order cook," Dean commented, looking at the towering pile of roll, dark brown patties drizzled with hot sauce and melting cheese, when Ash put their plates in front of them a few minutes later.

"Pays to diversify," Ash told him with a slow smile. "I need to talk to you," he added in a much lower tone, looking suspiciously around the people in the bar. "In the morning."

"About?" Dean picked up the burger, almost inhaling the first bite.

"In the morning," Ash repeated and hurried back to the kitchen.

"He does that deliberately, doesn't he?" Dean asked Sam, pushing most of the food to one side of his mouth to get the question out.

"Yeah, I think so." Sam nodded, picking up his burger. "You know those guys?"

Dean looked across to the table Sam was eyeing. "I know Jeb Pilson," he said, his attention narrowing on the group. "Pretty sure of two of the others. Why?"

Sam's nose wrinkled up a little. "Just wondering if they knew what they were going after when they went up to Hemingway. If we were the only ones who went in blind."

Dean swallowed the last bite of his burger and washed it down with the rest of his beer, glancing at the table as he set the empty bottle on the counter. "Looks like you'll get a chance to find out," he said, watching the tall man at the end of the table get to his feet and head in their direction.

"Winchester, right? Dean?" Jeb said as he stopped next to Dean. "Ellen said your old man ain't around anymore."

"That's right," Dean told him.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, son," Jeb said, tilting his head and the overhead lamps catching the silver in the thin ash-blond hair. "He was a good man."

"Thanks," Sam said. "He was."

"You must be Sam," Jeb said, making it not quite a question.

"Yessir."

"John told me a lot about you," the older hunter said, his mouth lifting a little. "He was real proud of you."

Sam looked at his brother who gazed blandly back at him. Since the job they'd had with the demon on the plane, Sam had heard, here and there, from their father's old acquaintances, how proud he'd been of his youngest boy. Dean thought Sam still wasn't yet ready to believe it.

"You boys still in the family business?" Jeb looked at Dean and he nodded.

"We heard you got left behind in Hemingway," Sam said, glancing at his brother.

Jeb laughed. "I heard you boys did too," he said, lifting a brow at the young man.

"You know the hunter that got it?" Dean asked curiously.

"Know a bit," Jeb told him with a shrug. "Used to hunt with Michael Furente, you know of him?"

Sam looked quizzically at Dean who shook his head.

"Something happened, something that no one really talks about," Jeb continued. "He was killed. He was good, scary good. Rumour is a demon took him."

Dean felt himself flinch inside, hoping it hadn't shown outwardly. "What did his partner say?"

"She didn't," Jeb said, making a small, wry gesture. "Doesn't. Hunts alone now."

Beside him, Dean felt Sam's slight movement at the pronouncement. Their father had told them both often enough that hunting alone was a fool's job, no backup made the odds against too high. He'd hunted alone enough in the years Sam had been Stanford to know that was right. His father had also hunted alone for a lot of years, falling out with his friends, obsessed with the demon that had killed his wife.

"Anything else?" Sam asked.

"Well, she's still alive," Jeb said consideringly. "That's a pretty good endorsement right there." He looked back to the table where his friends sat. "You boys need some help, you can get a hold of me through Ellen. I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry to hear about your dad."

"Thanks," Sam said.

Dean nodded as the older man wove his way back through the crowd, turning back to the bar and pushing the empty beer bottle aside.

"You want to stay here tonight?" Sam asked, turning around as well and lifting a hand to Ellen.

"Yep," Dean answered, his gaze wandering across the room, catching sight of one of the girls Ellen periodically hired when Jo was away. Connie and Casey. He'd thought Ellen was joking when she'd told them. Both were from town. Both had shown a degree of interest in the past.

His eye was caught by a flash of red, coming through the front door. The bar's lighting caught the redhead for a moment, gleaming on her bright hair. He watched her move through the crowd, losing her several times until she reached the other corner of the u-shaped bar and sat on a free seat there. Her back was half to them, barely visible through the increasing press of the crowd. He leaned out from his stool for a better look.

The bright hair was the colour of freshly polished copper, a long sheaf, braided down half its length, the rest loose and reaching down her back to the seat. She shook her head slightly and it caught the warm golden lights above the bar, flashing again.

Long, copper-bright hair, tangled, half-covered in blood, trailing over a back shredded by deep, dirt-filled claw marks.

Dean blinked disorientedly. The memory was vivid, but fragmentary. Where had he seen that? When had he seen it? He frowned, trying to pin it down. But the more he thought about it, the further it retreated. Making a deliberate effort to leave it alone, he slid off the stool, jostling the man beside him and giving him a nod in apology, his gaze drawn back to the redhead.

She was sitting alone, and he watched her turn back to the bar, lifting her glass as Ellen bustled by. They exchanged a few words, Ellen smiling as she reached for the bottle of Scotch from the shelf behind her. She poured a double measure into the woman's glass and the redhead raised it slightly, her head tipping back as she smiled at something Ellen said. Even in profile, it was a smile he wanted to see more of.

Ignoring his brother's questioning look, Dean started to make his way around the crowded edge of the bar, stopping as Connie – or Casey – slipped in front of him, setting a tray of empty glasses on the scarred wood counter.

"Hey, haven't seen you here for a while," she said, letting the crowd press her more tightly against him.

He looked down distractedly, then lifted his gaze over her head to the bar's corner.

"Uh, yeah, you know, coming an' goin'," he muttered, taking a step to the right.

The girl stepped right as well, one hand closing firmly around the loose edge of his coat. "You stayin' tonight?"

Suppressing his impatience, he looked down. "Might be."

"How 'bout we do something about–"

"Connie! Table five," Ellen said loudly, appearing next to the tray and clearing off the empties.

"Right," Connie said, reluctantly loosing her grip on him as she turned away.

Letting out a small sigh of relief, Dean gave her a couple of seconds head start, and pushed his way along through the crowd again. The encounter disappeared from his thoughts a moment later as he saw the redhead was still at the bar, sipping her whiskey.

When he reached the corner, he stared ferociously at the guy on the seat next to her, sitting on the vacated stool when the man picked up his beer and moved off. He looked at the woman's profile, seeing a straight nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, creamy skin taut over them, shadowed in the hollows underneath. Her features were slightly sharp, the full-lipped mouth wide, darker red brows sweeping back like wings.

He leaned closer, one elbow on the bar. "Hey. Haven't seen you here before."

She turned to look at him, and he saw the scattering of pale freckles over her nose and cheeks. "I'm not what you'd call a regular."

"But you know Ellen?" he pressed, one side of his mouth curling up a little.

"A little," she agreed noncommittally, taking another sip from her glass.

"I'm Dean Winchester." He held out his hand. She looked at it for a moment, then put her own into it, her grip firm, the fingers slim and with a wiry strength as they curved around his own.

"Nice to meet you." Her smile was polite, but that was all. He couldn't see her eyes, the light above shadowing her face.

"Are you with someone here?" he asked, glancing around to see if there was anyone charging towards them, ready to see him off.

"No."

"Is it just me, or are you this gabby with everyone?" he asked, wondering at his own persistence. He didn't usually work hard for anyone, preferring to see interest in the first glance, not wanting to reveal much about himself. His misgivings disappeared when he got a sudden genuine smile from her at the comment.

She lifted her face to him, and he saw that her eyes were a jade green, flecked with gold, rimmed with dark blue, the lashes long and a darker red than her hair, darker than the brows above them.

In that split-second, the memory was back, different; the eyes had been half-closed, one lid swollen shut, the lashes stuck together with blood. Then it was gone.

She was looking at him closely, the smile gone. "Something wrong?"

"No," he said uneasily, pulling his attention back to the present. "Sorry, just remembered something weird." He tried to brush off the moment, wanting to see that smile again. "You didn't answer my question."

"I have to go." She slid off the seat gracefully, bending to grab the strap of her bag, a bulky leather backpack that lay at her feet.

"It was nice to meet you," she said, nodding to him briefly before turning away and making her way through the crowd to the door. Dean stood by the bar, watching her go, a little perplexed by the sudden departure, the disjointed memories still lingering at the edges of his mind.

"Crash and burn?" Ellen asked from behind the bar. "Doesn't happen to you too often, Dean."

Turning around slowly, he shrugged. "Always an exception to the rule, Ellen. Do you know who she is?"

Ellen smiled slightly. "That was Ellie."

He looked at her, feeling his brows rise. "The hunter who got the wraith?"

"The very same," Ellen confirmed, filling a glass and passing it to the man sitting next to Dean.

"Can I get another beer, Ellen?" Dean sat on empty seat, his gaze dropping to the counter top.