A/N: This story was written for the Writers Anonymous Role Reversal Challenge. The title comes from a Flogging Molly song.

Please note that it contains brief sexual content, references to 17-year olds engaging in sexual activity, grown men letching on an underage girl, unplanned pregnancy and miscarriage. Oh, and as stated in the summary, a female Dean.

All comments are hugely appreciated and I welcome constructive criticism.

The Worst Day Since Yesterday

~ now ~

Some things you never forget. Like how the back of your neck itches when someone's watching you, even when you're not consciously aware that they're there. Deanna's been feeling it the last couple of days. Not enough to make her think she's in danger, but just enough to put her on edge, to remind her how complacent she's become. It's enough to make her switch up her routine, to vary her route home from the garage and the time she leaves, to work a little overtime occasionally or, like she's doing now, to ask Clay if she can leave early. She waits as he considers, the sun streaming in through the doorway behind her while he takes his time, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag and studying her silhouette.

"Tell you what," he says, "let me drive that sweet car of yours and maybe I'll say yes."

"No one drives my car but me. Can I get off early or not?" She picks her words deliberately, and he casts her a rueful grin, throwing the rag aside.

"Fine. Get the hell out of here."

She doesn't mind Clay. He's a dick, but he's okay. She slept with him once, after he'd split with his girlfriend for like the sixth time. They'd both been drunk and angry, sharing break-up stories in the bar. Most of hers she made up, pieced together from shit she'd seen on TV. Her first boyfriend; the first guy who broke her heart; the first time she broke someone else's heart. All lies, pretty much, but they sound good when she tells them. She's good at lying. He listened, and laughed, and shared his own petty little tales of heartache, and they commiserated about how fundamentally screwed up and pathetic they both were and how no doubt they'd both end their days alone.

And she wondered how he'd react if she told some of her other stories. The real ones. Like about the time she almost got her brother killed by a shtriga. Or how the first money she ever earned she got hustling pool. Or how she'd sit in a bar reading comic books with Sam, waiting for her dad to get done communing with the paranoid sociopaths he called colleagues, on edge because she'd started to get tits and she hated the way the men kept glancing at her, They did it carefully though, 'cause they knew too well what good old John'd do if he caught them eyeing up his barely post-pubescent daughter. Well, maybe he hadn't noticed, but she sure had.

John Winchester's idea of fun family times don't exactly make for decent bar stories. Not unless you're amongst people who know the life, and she hadn't been for a while. So Clay got tales of teenaged heartbreak and awkward break-up sex, and ain't that, he said, flipping a handful of peanuts into his mouth, the best kind of sex? No strings.

Well, at least he was honest. Although a girl more trusting and less cynical than Deanna might have chosen not to notice that carefully tacked-on caveat.

The sex was okay. Better the next morning when they'd both more or less sobered up. He took it slower, more deliberate, his fingers splayed over her belly as he drove himself deeper. Now that they were both sober, it was obvious he knew what he was doing.

"Lazy hangover sex," she muttered into the pillows when they were both done. "That's the best kind of sex."

He gave her painkillers to chase away the hangover. Made her breakfast. And then kind of stood there, rubbing the nape of his neck, and watching her as she sat at the breakfast bar and wolfed down the eggs and drank the coffee, although by then she didn't want either, just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge, because she knew he was trying to figure out a way of getting her out of his kitchen without upsetting her. The photo of him and his girlfriend stuck to the fridge beamed down at her. But hey, who knows, maybe on breakup number seven he'd come calling for her again.

None of her break up stories are true. Some of the awkward sex ones are though.

And still she feels the itch of being watched. At night, in her shithole of an apartment she stays up into the early hours, drinking beer and watching schlocky horror movies with the lights off. The soft muted glow from the TV plays over her bare legs. She'll fall asleep on the couch, wake to find herself in darkness and with the sensation of someone looming over her. A dead weight pressing down on her chest, a hand clamped over her mouth.

Something's coming.

It feels like waiting for a storm to break.

She comes across her second cell, the cheap burner that she hasn't bothered to turn on or charge in well over a year, when she's scrabbling through her drawers for a clean bra. It's tangled up among her underwear, a plasticky brick of a thing, the screen dull and grey. Dead. She weighs it in her hand for a moment, her thumb running over the screen. Then she flings it back, so hard it clatters across the thin plywood bottom of the drawer, right to the back so it can't be seen. Like if it's somewhere she can see it there's a danger it might still ring, dead or not.

Something's coming and she's got a pretty damned good idea what it is. It's not a life you ever really escape from.

She meets Jake after work, in a dive, not the usual bar she goes to. He's a slab of muscle and golden skin, with a shaved head and cheekbones that suggest he's got some Native American ancestry lurking in his genes. He's also not the sharpest, and he has a habit of glancing away from her while she's talking, like he's looking for someone more interesting or attractive, and that pisses her the hell off. So instead of trying to talk she kisses him, and that gets his full attention.

She knew something was coming. What she wasn't expecting was for that something to ring her doorbell.

He's different, her brother. For one thing, he's bigger, although she wouldn't have thought that physically possible. It takes her aback how much he's bulked up in the intervening years. He's taller too, like freakish tall, and she feels a sudden rush of regret for all the years she's missed. Little Sammy grew up. And across.

There's a gravity about him too which wasn't there before, and he watches her carefully, waiting for her reaction. "Hey, Deanna."

"Sam."

Jake appears in the doorway to her bedroom, shirtless, but thank god he's still got his damn pants on. He eyes them both with an expression like he's trying to figure out if this situation is one that'll leave him in a world of hurt.

"Hi." Sam's holding out his hand, smiling a smile she's definitely never seen before, friendly with an edge of threat. Jake gives her a side-eyed look of panic, and she feels a stab of sympathy for him. "I'm Sam, Deanna's brother. Sorry to burst in on you guys like this. Family emergency." And then he's turning on Deanna. "Dad's on a hunting trip. He hasn't been home in a few days."

What the actual fuck?

"I… uh. Hi. Um…" Jake stabs his thumb at the door. "Maybe I should go?"

"You do that, Jack," she says without looking at him.

"It's Jake."

"Right. Yeah, sorry. See you 'round." And still he hesitates on the way out of the door and stops in the corridor like he's wondering if he should give her his number. She waggles her fingers in a 'fuck off, bye' wave and slams the door in his face.

"Seems like a nice guy," Sam comments. "You two close?"

She shakes her head. She is so not getting into that now. "When you say 'a few days'…"

"More than three weeks now."

"You tried calling? Leaving messages?"

He gives her a look. "Something's wrong."

"Since when is Dad being Dad a family emergency? Not that I'm not glad to see you or anything."

"Are you? Because you don't seem like it."

"Well…" She moves restlessly into the kitchen, throat tightening when she turns and finds him close behind her. Damn, he moves quietly for such a big guy. "Can you blame me? You don't call, you don't write…"

"I would have. If I thought you wanted to hear from me. Did you?"

"Can I get you a beer?" She's already moving towards the fridge.

He shakes his head, and she stops, wiping her hands nervously against her legs. She could do with a beer herself, chase off the coming hangover that's readying itself to crash down on her like a ton of bricks, but her throat feels like it's closing up.

"Something's wrong," Sam says again, and this time his composure cracks a little. She can hear the strain in his voice, see the shadows under his eyes, and whatever else he might be, he's still her baby brother.

"Tell me."

~ then ~

Deanna was seventeen when she ran away for the first time.

She'd skipped a period and was weeks overdue, her face a pale bloodless blur in the mirror in the bathroom of the grungy motel. She sat on the toilet seat, one leg bent with her arm wrapped around her shin, the pregnancy test held at arms' length, caught between her fingers like a cigarette. She hadn't looked at it, not yet, just kept sitting frozen until a bang on the door made her jump. Sam, wanting to know if she was going to be much longer, and what the hell was she doing anyway, finally washing her greasy hair?

"Screw you, jerk," she told him, and flushed the toilet. She still hadn't looked at the test. Instead she set it on the side, splashed her face with water, then stopped, her fingers pressed into the inner corners of her eyes.

Another hammering on the door. "Stop hogging the toilet, Deanna."

"Or what?"

She closed her fist around the pregnancy test, tucked it up against her wrist like a hidden knife. The tip dug into the bones of her wrist. She wriggled it a little harder until it hurt, thinking, Ever hear of condoms, you dumb bitch? Then she jerked the door open, and glared up at him.

"I was changing a tampon. There was blood everywhere."

"Girls are gross."

"Jerk."

"Bitch." He said it quietly, trying to make it sound like he didn't mean it, even though they both knew he kind of did. She shoved past him, driving an elbow into his ribs, hating that he was taller than her even though he was just thirteen. It was clear he was going to be built like their dad too, all bulk and solid muscle, while she was as skinny as ever.

Sam got muscle and strength, she got tits and menstruation. Didn't seem fair really, although who knew, maybe she wouldn't have to worry about periods for a little while. Like, say, seven more months or so. Then periods'd be the least of her problems.

Sam stared after her. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

She didn't turn around. Didn't look at him, because if she did he might guess. "I'm on the rag. What do you fucking think? Are you going to take a dump, or not? Because I need to get changed, and I can't do it while you're staring at me, weirdo."

"Deanna..." He stopped, hesitated.

What?

"Are you okay?" He sounded younger, less certain, and it chipped away at the ball of ice that had frozen around her heart. He sounded like a kid, and why the hell wouldn't he, since that was exactly what he was.

Now she looked at him, steeling herself to meet his gaze. "Why wouldn't I be?" She waited for a smart-ass comment, buthe didn't say anything, just kept staring at her with that damn puppy dog look that didn't sit right on his face, because why the hell wasn't she scurrying to reassure him, to hug him and tell him it's all going to be okay the way a good big sister was meant to. And it came bubbling up in her then, the urge to say, Oh, hey, Sammy, how'd you like the thought of being an uncle?

"You seem weird," he said, and she gave him a withering look. "Weirder than usual, I mean."

"Weird how?"

"You're not usually this big a bitch."

"Well, the times they are a'changing, Sammy. Get used to it." And she turned her back on him deliberately, rifled through the tangle of clothes dumped on her bed, pulled out a pair of black jeans faded charcoal-grey, a greying sports bra. She waited until he vanished inside the bathroom and closed the door, until she heard the snap of the lock. Then she hid the test under the pillow, and dressed quickly, stripping out of her loungewear, and wriggling into the tight jeans and fastening the button fly. She wouldn't bother with the bra, but her nipples were too sensitive not to, so she pulled it on, and fastened it at the back. She grimaced at herself in the mirror, pallid, hungover and bleary. "Sexy."

"You decent?" Sam called from the bathroom.

"No." She picked a Metallica t-shirt at random from the duffel bag, and pulled it over her head. She ruffled up her hair, then snatched the pregnancy test from beneath the pillow and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. "Now I'm decent. Well, kinda."

He came back in, frowned at her as she sat on the bed and started to tie the laces of her clumpy workboots. After a few moments, she stopped and looked up.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She grunted. Wished he'd stop looking at her.

"You going out?" he asked.

"Just to the diner. I'm hungry. Want me to get you a burger?"

He shook his head. "Where are you really going?"

"I told you. To the diner."

"Yeah. Right."

"Screw you. Do you want a burger or not?"

"Don't you need this?" He flashed a card at her, her fake ID. The face of a woman printed on it looked kind of like her. A little prettier. No wait, a lot prettier. "They won't serve you without it, right? You've still got a ways to go before you're twenty-one."

She flashed him a hard bitter smile. "What're you gonna do, tell Dad?"

He studied the ID. "It doesn't even look like you."

"It doesn't need to." She plucked the card from his fingers and stuffed it in her pocket. Her fingers snagged on the pregnancy test, and there was a moment when she thought, maybe was even tempted to do it deliberately, that she might pull the damn thing right out of her pocket and let it clatter to the ground between them. "Not like they're looking at my face."

He sank down on the bed, and turned the TV on. "How long you gonna be?"

"Why, you wondering if you've got time to watch some pay-per-view porn?" He flushed at that, so she'd guessed right. Ew. "Now who's gross?"

"Still you."

"About an hour, how's that? That long enough for you? Don't say yes. I don't wanna know."

"You going to take a weapon?"

She spread her hands. "Do I look like I got room for a gun in this outfit?"

"Dad says–"

"I know what Dad says. Shut the fuck up about it."

"Deanna–"

"I said shut up, Sammy. I can take care of myself." And all the time the test was in her pocket, shifting with every movement.

~O~

Fake ID or not, she went to the diner, felt eyes on her ass as she walked past a booth where a family was sitting, and picked a table. She sat facing the family, and the dad had brought up the menu to hide his face, avoiding her hard angry stare. His wife was saying something, her voice sharp, and he lowered the menu reluctantly and replied, his gaze flicking towards Deanna and then away quickly when he found her watching.

The waitress was blousy, with bleached hair and black roots, and she smiled at Deanna with knowing weariness, like she'd recognised a fellow member of her tribe. The two of them trashy bitter girls, hard as nails.

"What can I get ya?"

She ordered a burger, a coke. Longed for something stronger. Over at the other booth, the wife had gone to the bathroom, the two golden-haired poppets were arguing, and the dad looked like he was seriously contemplating blowing his brains out. He sipped his coffee, his gaze twitching almost involuntarily back towards her and he caught her eye. There was a hesitation, like he knew he was going straight to hell, then he gave her a tentative questioning smile.

She flipped him the bird. Then stood, slipped out of the booth and headed towards the bathroom, grinning back over her shoulder. His mouth dropped open with a pure look of primal terror, then the littlest poppet started screeching, an ear-splitting squeal that was like nails driving into eardrums, and he was forced to pay attention to his kids. Deanna turned her back, shoved through the door into the women's bathroom.

The wife was at the basin, washing her hands. She glanced at Deanna in the mirror, then looked away. Deanna moved into one of the stalls, closed the door and slid the bolt to. She sat on the toilet, spread her hands on her knees. Her skin felt too tight for her body. The waistband of her too-tight jeans dug into her belly. She took the pregnancy test from her pocket, held it tight for a moment, wondering how long the result would last. Maybe if she left it long enough for the second line – if there was a second line – to fade, then any baby would fade right along with it.

The door swung shut, and she was alone.

"C'mon," she muttered. "You're freaking out over nothing." And looked down. In the urine-soaked window, there are two slender lines, a pale watery pink. She let out a breath, like she'd been punched in the gut, because she hadn't really been expecting it. Christ, she'd pickled herself in whiskey; she couldn't be pregnant. The world seemed to teeter and tilt, like the grimy tiled floor had been ripped out from underneath her. The sob choked up out of her chest, and with it came a wave of fury and grief, because what the fuck, what the fuck, was she doing, sitting on a toilet in a dead end diner in the middle of nowhere, still kind of hungover, when all she really wanted was her mom?

Damn it, what the hell was she going to tell her father?

She waited four days, snapping at Sam as she waited for their father to come home. There'd been no word from him. She tried his phone, but it went straight to voicemail, and after a while she stopped, because if she wasn't careful he'd hear it in her voice, know something was wrong. So she tried to sound pissed, like she was sick of looking after Sam on her own, which she was, and like she was sick of having to scrape together something to eat every night and having Sam turn his nose up at it, which she also was.

Sam was on the phone when she came in, slinging the take-out onto the desk. "Uh huh, yeah, sure okay, yes sir." And then he hung up. She'd gone still, listening.

"Who was that? Was that Dad?" Knowing the answer. Hoping she was wrong.

"Yeah. He wants us to look into something, a job in Yellow Springs. He thinks there might be an angry spirit haunting a guest house there, wants us to check it out."

"Oh." She turned away, started pulling the containers out of the bag.

"What is it?"

"I've been trying to call Dad." Her voice was flat. "He never answers."

Sam met her gaze in the mirror. He looked awkward.

"But he called you," she continued. "About a job."

"It's nothing," he said. "Just some research, that's all. You hate research. Maybe he just assumed you'd be busy. And…"

"And what?"

He shrugged, like he wasn't really sure what he was going to say next but he was avoiding her eyes. She kept silent for a moment, setting the take-out containers deliberately on the desk. Laying dinner out, just like their mom used to. Not that Sam'd remember that.

"He's already heading back," he said. "He'll be here tomorrow morning. Early."

The thought of that made her feel like she couldn't breathe.

Her father taught her how to fight. How to shoot. He'd even had her hunt with him from time to time, although now looking back she can see how they were always the easy jobs. Anything harder, he'd call up one of his buddies, stick her with the job of protecting Sam. But Sam was older now, he was bigger, and he didn't need a goddamn babysitter. But maybe he did still need a mother.

There were other women in the life, but mostly they were on the outskirts: sisters, lovers, daughters, mothers. The ones who waited anxiously at home for their men to come home in one piece, and, with any luck, not drunk out of their skulls. They were there to patch wounds and make sure there was something to eat on the table, something to drink in the fridge. Christ, was that going to be her life now? Was that the life her father wanted for her?

A few women threw themselves full tilt into hunting, but not many. Mostly they were the kind of crazy ones, and usually it was vengeance that drove them, and while maybe that sort of fit, Deanna knew damn well her dad wouldn't see it that way. Screw the fact that she was faster than Sam, that she was at least as good a shot with a firearm, because at some point it stopped being about her protecting Sam, and started to be about Sam protecting her. When she sparred with her brother, it made her want to scream the way she could feel him holding back, going easy on her. Because she was a girl and she was weak and, baby, let's face it, Sam had always been Dad's favourite.

Deanna was… well, her main problem was that she wasn't her mom. She lacked her mother's poise, her calm, her beauty. Deanna cut her hair herself, drawing the blade of her knife down her hanks of hair. Her bangs were ragged, her eyeliner thick and black, smudged khol like bruises. She wore it like armour, although make up couldn't protect her any more than angels and prayer could. That was a lesson she learned young.

She knew too well what her father saw when he looked at her. His own failure to protect his family, thrown back at him like a magic mirror.

~O~

Every time she brushed her teeth she felt like she wanted to puke. She was starving, but every time she tried to eat she'd take two bites and then her appetite vanished, leaving her chewing a mouthful of food that she had to choke down.

She waited until their dad comes back, cut him off at the pass before he noticed how pale she was getting. She told him she was getting over a bug, and tensed, half expecting him to be able to tell that she was lying in a single glance. He didn't. Deanna had stopped thinking her dad was perfect a long time ago, but still some of that childish fantasy lingered on; now it slipped another couple of notches.

When she went to his room, she found him drawn and tired, a glass of whiskey close to hand and his journal on the desk, and he barely even looked up when she told him she was going out to get something to eat, and did he want anything.

And maybe there was a moment when he heard something in her voice, a moment when he glanced at at her. She could smell the whiskey from here and the nausea bit at her stomach, her mouth flooding with saliva. She swallowed hard, bunched her fists tighter in the pockets of her jeans, fighting the urge to retch. Had he heard the guilt in her voice? Seen the lie in her eyes? He should have done. Maybe he would have done, a couple of years or so back, before his search for the demon started to turn into an obsession. Now he was itching to get back to his journal, to whatever fucked up monster he was planning on hunting next. He wanted her gone.

He shook his head. And Deanna took off.

~ now ~

When they're about five miles from Jericho, Sam, who's in the passenger seat, doubles up in pain with a ragged cry of agony. Deanna stares at him in alarm. "Sam, what the fuck-"

He gestures, a sharp slash of his hand, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm okay, it's just–" And then his body spasms again, another jagged cry.

She pulls over, grabs for her phone, but he catches hold of her wrist. "Don't." He's blanched, his skin white and waxy, sweat beading on his forehead. "It's okay."

"Like hell, Sammy."

His voice is still strained, his breathing ragged, as he pinches at the bridge of his nose. "It's nothing. Just… I get these flashes sometimes."

She regards him in alarm. "You mean like a migraine?"

He gives a hollow humourless laugh. "Not exactly."

"Flashes of what?" Her mouth is dry, her heart drumming, with the certain knowledge that whatever he's about to say is not going to be something she wants to hear.

He drops his hands, looks at her. There are shadows under his bloodshot eyes and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week. "Do you really want to know?"

"Just tell me."

"Things that are going to happen." He says it flatly, braced for her to flip out.

"Like a vision?"

"Like a vision."

She stares out of the window, processing this. A passing car slows to see if they need help, and she waves it on. "Does Dad know?"

Another humourless bark of laughter. "Yeah, Dad knows." He isn't looking at her.

"You're lying. Dad would freak out."

He glances at her. "What makes you think he didn't? He did. At first."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What's he doing about it?"

"He isn't doing anything about it. It's useful. I've saved lives. He didn't like it, especially not at first, and he doesn't want anyone else knowing about it, but he accepts it. So should you. Look, just trust me on this."

"Trust you? C'mon, Sam. And don't give me that damn puppy dog look. It doesn't work on me. How long has this been going on?"

"About a year or so. It started with dreams, then I started having visions during the day as well. Not all of them make sense." He rubs his forehead wearily. "This one didn't."

She thumps the heel of her palm on the steering wheel. "Damn it. Were you going to tell me this at any point?"

"I didn't want to worry you." His voice, she notes, is still strained.

"Does it always affect you like this? Jesus, Sam, what if you have an aneurysm?"

He shrugs, offers up a weak smile, but he's still not meeting her eyes. "Why do you think I let you drive?"

~O~

By the time they reach a motel, Sam has barely recovered. His breathing isn't quite so ragged, but he's still pale and strained. Deanna pulls into the lot, sits for a moment, drumming her hands on the wheel. "Sam–"

"I'm fine."

"Are you? Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Why'd you come find me? Because I'm guessing it wasn't just because you felt like a reunion. Did you see me in one of those visions? Because, dude, I gotta say, that creeps me the hell out."

He laughs, then winces, hand rising to his forehead. "Maybe I thought it was time you and Dad put this stupid argument behind you."

"Uh huh. And what's the real reason?"

A pause. Rain drums on the windscreen, tracks labyrinth down the glass. "I'm worried about Dad."

"Dad's fine. And if he's not…" She hesitates. "Well, if he's not, it's not like there's a damn thing I can do about it."

"Maybe I just missed you."

"And maybe you're full of shit."

"All right. Maybe I was worried about you. Maybe I don't believe you when you say you're doing okay."

"Don't be, dude. I'm fine."

"Yeah, looked like it. So this Jake guy… Or is it Jack?"

"Jesus, Sam, enough. We've been over this already like, a thousand times. I don't need you to protect me."

He holds up his hands in surrender, then hesitates, "Do you want me to get two separate rooms?"

"What, are you made of money? Just get a twin."

He flashes her a smile, but there's an edge to it, like that wasn't exactly the answer he was hoping for. "Like old times, right?"

"Right."

She follows him into the lobby, grits her teeth when Sam asks for a twin and the clerk gives them 'the look', trying to figure out what their relationship is. When Sam slides the credit card over to the clerk, he purses his lips, and studies the name, raising his eyebrows as if all has suddenly become clear.

"You guys having a reunion, or something?"

~O~

The room smells of her father, his aftershave, the lingering fug of stale whiskey. The broken protective line of salt at the door is matched by the ones at the windows. Half-eaten food has been left to rot, books are piled on a bed that doesn't look like it's been slept in in at least a week, and newspaper clippings, maps, and photographs are pinned to every surface. It feels a little like slipping back through time, into a world she left behind. She'd almost started to forget how batshit crazy her father could look from the outside.

The hunt itself is straightforward. John Winchester is nothing if not thorough, and the trail of crumbs leads them to a grave, to bones they dig up and salt and burn, and another angry spirit is put to rest. Just like old times. Her father may not have trusted her to fight, but she can desecrate a grave with the best of them.

Simple. Except it's really not.

That night, Sam dreams. He wakes her with his screams, thrashing in his bed. Deanna turns on the light as he jerks awake. When she says his name his gaze snaps towards her and he's white-faced and sweating. He stares at her unseeing, and then he's out of bed, moving to the bathroom.

In the doorway of the bathroom she stops with a shiver of old memories in her mind. He's bent over the sink, splashing water on his face with one hand, the other gripping the edge of the sink so tight his knuckles are white. "Why am I really here, Sam? Is it something to do with the visions?"

There's a moment when she's sure he isn't going to answer her. Then: "Yeah."

"You lied to me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I can take care of myself. I don't need you riding in to save me. I'm a big girl now, Sammy. I always was."

"You think…" His gaze flicks toward hers in the mirror. "You think this is about you?"

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Something to do with the visions?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe." He stops, draws his hand down over his face. Deanna, who knows her brother probably better than she knows herself, can see he's coming to a decision. "Something's coming," he says finally. "Something's coming and I don't know if I can handle it."

"Does Dad know this?"

In the mirror his eyes shift away. "Some of it."

"But not all?"

"He doesn't know this."

Her mouth is dry. She needs a drink suddenly more than anything. Her throat aches. For her childhood, for her mother. For the day her parents bought Sam home, a scrap of a thing, red faced and squalling, his skull still kind of squashed. Her baby brother. She's numb as she hears herself say, "Where do the visions come from, Sam?"

"I don't know.." He closes his eyes. "I should have told you."

"You think?" She's backing out, because she can't stay in the tiny claustrophobic little bathroom any more.

"Deanna–"

"I can't, Sam." And as she speaks, she knows it's the truth. She can't. "I'm done hunting. Not like Dad ever really let me be of this life anyway. All he ever wanted was to keep me somewhere where he could keep an eye on me. I'm sorry but I'm done. I can't help you. There's nothing I can do."

He doesn't say anything, just watches her. She takes a breath.

"Take me home, Sam."

~ then ~

Deanna kept moving, on the lookout for anyone she knew, anyone who might be a hunter, anyone who could pass news of her back to her dad. She bought a cheap ass burner phone, texted Sam a message: Tell dad Im ok, don't look for me. CU soon. She didn't know if it was the truth or not. She turned the phone off before it started to ring, threw it in a trash can. Moved on.

It felt like wading through treacle. For the first time in her life she didn't know what to do. She didn't have the first idea how to go about getting an abortion. Whether or not she should. Whether or not she wanted to. She should have known the answer to those questions, but she was tired and she kept getting distracted by stories in the news: like a father wiping out his entire family, then setting fire to himself, the second time that had happened in town in a year. A copycat, the authorities thought, but when was it ever just a copycat? She hanged around town for a couple of days, thinking she could do some digging herself, but it wasn't long before she saw another hunter: some guy she knew vaguely through her dad, and it was time to move on. Someone else could deal with it.

It started with a pinkish smear on the toilet tissue when she wiped. She looked at it numbly, distantly aware of an ache in her kidneys, like the onset of a period. That night she dreamed, felt in the dream a twist of something in her gut, and she woke to find her sheets sticky and wet. When she sat up, there was the feel of something slipping.

The decision had been made for her. Like every other decision in her life, pretty much. She stumbled to the bathroom, stuffed her panties with toilet tissue because she didn't have sanpro - well, why the hell would she? She was supposed to be pregnant.

And because she didn't know what the hell else she could do, she went to one of the closest places to a home she knew of, which was really fucking pathetic when she thought about it. To the Roadhouse, and to Ellen Harvelle, the woman her dad dumped her with for a couple of months when she first started having periods. And it was clear when Ellen saw Deanna, standing in the empty bar with the duffel bag slung over her shoulder, that she'd heard from John. It was also clear that she had some idea of why Deanna might have run away in the first place. She came out from behind the bar, pulled Deanna into a hug.

"Your father's worried sick about you," she said, and she sounded furious.

"Please, don't tell him I'm here." It was the crack in her voice that filled her with rage, and her own stupidity asking Ellen to lie for her, when she already knew there was no way in hell Ellen would do any such damn thing. Ellen was a mother, after all.

Jo, Ellen's daughter, was still in that awkward and gangly phase of adolescence, a pretty blonde with a hard edge. They both ate their dinner and pretended not to listen to Ellen murmuring on the phone in the next room, her voice shifting in cadence, at times reassuring, at times placating. The gist: she's fine, she's safe, be gentle with her.

And he turned up a day and a half later, looking like he'd driven all night, looking like he hadn't stopped driving since he got the phone-call. There was no sign of Sam, and she felt a stab of regret pierce her heart, because she would have liked to see her brother. She watched her father warily, not knowing whether he was going to hug her or hit her, and maybe he wasn't sure either, because he stopped a few yards in front of her.

"Get in the car, Deanna."

"Dad, I'm–"

"I said get in the car."

She hesitated. "My stuff…"

"I'll get your stuff. I need to talk to Ellen."

Ellen folded her into a hug, rubbed her back between her shoulder blades. Deanna hugged Jo, too, then went to the car, glancing back over her shoulder. She sat in the passenger seat of the Impala for what seemed like an hour, waiting until her father emerged and climbed into the driver's seat without so much as a word.

They drove in silence. She wanted to speak, but it felt like there was a ton weight pressing down on her tongue, on her heart, so instead she stared out of the window, watched the horizon until the weight lifted enough that she could ask where Sam was.

"I left him at Bobby's." His tone was peremptory. Curt.

"Is he okay?"

Without warning, he pulled over. Turned off the engine, then went still, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say. He glanced at her, a quick darting glance out of the corner of his eye, like she was a monster and he knew he couldn't risk looking at her full on. "Did somebody hurt you?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Just tell me. Who was he? Was he another hunter?"

"What difference does it make?" In any case she doubted she'd ever see him again. Chances were he'd be dead soon, and he wasn't anyone really. Just another tagalong like her, bored and restless and damaged. She stared at her father, fingers digging hard into her legs through her jeans. The bleeding had stopped now, and with it the lower back ache had vanished too. Physically she felt fine, but her world seemed like it had been flipped around, like she was scrambling her way through a funhouse, the ground uneven and treacherous beneath her feet. "I want to be a hunter, Dad."

"You are a hunter."

"No, I'm not. You let me do research every once in a while. Big fucking deal–"

"Watch your mouth."

She shot him a scowl from under her bangs. Or what, she thought, but didn't say. Part of her wa still cringing that she was talking to her father this way. "I want to hunt. I want to help you. I'm sick of being dumped in motel rooms, like I'm just some kid. I'm sick of babysitting Sam. I want to help you find the thing that killed mom."

He was silent for a long while. "That's enough. We'll talk about it another time."

"Will we?"

"I said that's enough, Deanna. "

Of course, they didn't talk about it another time, and she didn't know how to go about bringing it up again. When they got to Bobby's, Sam wrapped her in a crushing bear hug. Seemed like he'd grown another inch or so in the time she'd been gone, and she punched his arm when he let her go.

Bobby's world of dust and old mildewed books, of rusting cars and long grass, had seemed a paradise to her and Sam as kids, and now felt like a kind of prison. At night she woke up, heard the men talking in low voices in the kitchen, her father in profile as Bobby got up and crossed to the fridge. Her father was pinching at the bridge of his nose, and looked for an instant, lost and utterly broken.

In the morning, he'd gone.

~ now ~

"You're stronger than you think."

It's the last thing Sam says to her when he drops her off, and she laughs bitterly because it's such, such bullshit and he doesn't have a clue.

"Should I have left you alone?" he asks when she's done laughing.

She considers, then shakes her head. "No. No, it was good to see you. I just kinda wish it was under different circumstances."

"Yeah, me too."

"Dad'll be okay, you know." Although she doesn't know this at all. There's been something in her chest, something about how the world feels off-kilter, that tells her she's wrong. Maybe it's been there for a while. Maybe she has a little of what Sam has, the second sight or the premonitions or whatever the hell they are. Or maybe it's just female intuition.

Either way, the thought of getting back into that life fills her with choking panic. Sam's wrong. She's not stronger than she thinks. She's weaker, and so is he.

He hugs her. A bear hug that crushes the air from her, until she thumps him. "I can't breathe, jerk."

"Sorry. Take care of yourself."

"You too, Sammy."

And then she has the key in the lock, letting herself into her apartment before he sees that she's almost on the verge of tears. He watches her until she's inside, and she closes the door behind her, slides the security chain back into place, wipes her damp cheek with the back of her hand. She exhales.

When she goes into into the kitchen, for a beer, she walks right past Jake.

He's standing motionless in the shadows, like he's been waiting a while.

"What the f–"

He lifts his head. His eyes are a solid black. "I was wondering when you'd finally get back."

She whirls, pulling her gun, but not fast enough. He catches her wrist and twists back her arm until she drops the gun. Grabs her hair and smashes her face into the counter. There's a crunch of shattering cartilage, and she drops. He kicks away the gun, turns towards her as she hauls herself up the counter, grabbing for a knife from the block. She slashes it at him, scores a gash through his shirt and a garish flower blooms scarlet on the fabric.

He knocks her aside with a back-handed slap, and then he picks her up and slams her back against the fridge. His hands clamp tight around her throat, while she struggles, kicks, claws at him.

She drives her finger into his eye socket, and he jerks his head back, eye a pulped mess. He bares his teeth, half growling, half laughing.

"Bitch, that stings." He throws her aside and she hits the counter. The plate she abandoned unwashed, falls to the tiles and smashes. She collapses, her vision shrinking, blackness bleeding at the edge of her vision.

He kicks her in the belly, hauls her into a sitting position, knee pressed hard between her legs. His black shark's eyes come closer and it's like the inside of him is hollow, like his skin and meat is nothing more than a brittle shell, filled to the brim with malice. Hot breath on her neck, the flicker of his tongue as he tastes her skin, brings his mouth to her ear.

"You can't protect him any more," he whispers. "Sam belongs to us now."

She drives a shard of the broken plate up into his jaw. He gives a kind of choking squawk, and fumbles at it, falling backward.

She scrambles away, shards of broken plate crunching beneath the toes of her boots and she tries to stand. He grabs her ankle and jerks her backwards. Her knee slams painfully against the floor. She twists in his grip and kicks out with her other foot, breaking his grip. She throws herself up, grabs the kettle from the countertop and smashes it over his head when he makes another grab for her. He's spitting curses now, all the things he's going to do to her, how she'll be begging him to kill her by the time he's done.

She snatches up her gun, brings it up–

Jake's head drops back. He vomits out a stream of choking black smoke which surges forth in a billowing cloud against the ceiling, then toward the window, and out through a crack. Jake's motionless for a moment, still with his head back, his arms spread, and the blood flooding from the underside of his jaw. Then he crumples.

She falls to her knees beside him, pressing her hand against his throat, trying to stem the bleeding, knowing it's already too late.

The door crashes open and Sam bursts in. "Call 911," she screams at him, but there's no point, there's no point, he's already dead. She sinks back on her heels, and presses the back of her hand to her mouth, smearing his blood across the lower half of her face.

"He's gone." Sam's voice sounds distant. She stares up at a black stain on the ceiling and she can't tell if its from the smoke or just a grease and nicotine stains. Jake's remaining eye stares accusatorily at her, while his words ring hollow as a bell in her heart. You can't protect him any more.

Sam's got his arms around her and he's telling her that she's safe now, she's safe, and she wants to laugh in his face, because she was never safe, not when they were children, and not now that they're adults, and not once in all the days in between.

She shoves him away. Stares for a moment at the body of the man she just killed. Thinks of that living smoke seething against the ceiling. Thinks of calling up the cops and having to go through all the questions a dead body on her kitchen floor is going to raise. Wow. That's going to be awkward.

She takes a breath, closes her eyes. "Let's go find Dad."

"Deanna..."

"Shut up, Sam." Because if she lets herself think to hard about this, about any of this, she's going to start crying, and there's no way in hell she's letting herself cry.

You can't protect him any more.

Yeah, she thinks grimly. Screw that.