Rachel Stockton slipped out of bed and wrestled on a shirt. Padding quietly to the door, she listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, continued on her way. She sat down at the dining room table and fired up the laptop that had been one of her only companions for months.
She pulled the book on the table closer to her and flipped to the page she had marked. It was written in Spanish, of which she had only a passing knowledge, but there was a Spanish-English dictionary on her computer. She pulled her long blond hair into a ponytail, taking care not to accidentally entrap the legs of her glasses, and got to work.
The book was old but sturdy, and Rachel was thankful she didn't need to use gloves to handle it. Some of her host's books would crumble if the oil from her hands touched them. Referring to the dictionary only occasionally now - when she'd first started, she'd had to look up nearly every word - she got through five pages of cramped handwriting before she heard someone above her stir. She kept working, knowing it was only Bobby.
Sure enough, she heard the unmistakable sound of his boots coming down the stairs just minutes later. The kitchen light flickered on and he started shuffling around to make coffee. "Rachel? That you?"
"In the flesh," she answered.
"Why didn't you make coffee?"
"And spare you the ritual?" she retorted. Months ago, she'd made the mistake of getting the coffee started before Bobby was awake. He'd nearly bitten her head off for it.
Bobby started the coffeepot and came out to the table. "What are you on now?" he asked.
"Something in Spanish about walking dead."
"I didn't know you spoke Spanish."
"I don't," she said, "but I'm getting better. I started this book three days ago and I'm only twenty pages in, but I did five of those since I came down this morning."
"When did you come down, anyway?" he asked suspiciously.
"Uh...one, maybe? Two?" Rachel guessed.
"Still not sleeping well," Bobby said.
"No," she answered, though it wasn't a question, and turned back to her book. She really didn't want to discuss her sleeping habits - or her eating habits, for that matter - with him.
"One of these days you're going to sleep for a week."
"Maybe."
Bobby sighed. "Sam, Dean, and I are heading out to Nebraska today," he told her, a subject change she was grateful for. "We got demonic omens there."
Rachel couldn't entirely hide her surprise. "You're going with them? I thought you preferred staying here and manning the phones."
"I do," Bobby grunted. "I'm old, I'm tired, and I'm worn down. But with the Devil's Gate opened, it's all hands on deck. You can handle the phones for a few days."
"Good thing I'm on nights right now." She worked twelve-hour shifts at the Sioux City sheriff's department three or four nights a week as a dispatcher. Her comment came from the knowledge that most hunters would only be giving out Bobby Singer's number during the day, so she would be there and, given how little she slept, awake.
Three hours later, Bobby and Dean were upstairs packing when Sam found her, still sitting at the table, coffee untouched. He sat across from her and cleared his throat.
Rachel looked up and raised her eyebrows at the look on his face. She'd seen him hurt, scared, angry, embarrassed, happy, sad - but she'd never seen him like this. "What's on your mind?" she asked, careful to ask it the way she'd ask it if he didn't look so vulnerable.
"Dean," he said quietly. "Dean and his deal."
Rachel nodded. She'd expected him to be thinking about that, but she hadn't expected him to come to her. "Anything in particular, or the overall idea?"
Sam's lips quirked. "Is there any way out?"
Rachel nibbled her bottom lip. "I don't know." Her eyes moved behind him to the shelves full of old books. "I can look. Maybe there's something online Bobby hasn't seen."
"I appreciate that," Sam said.
"Sam…" Rachel sighed. "I don't want to get your hopes up," she said carefully. "You know better than I do how demon deals work."
"Yeah, I do. But I have to try." Sam looked at her with painful hope. "You can't tell me you'd be feeling the same way if your sister -"
"Shut up," Rachel said sharply, standing up abruptly. Nobody had the right to mention her dead twin sister if they had never known her. "Don't you dare bring Amanda into this."
"You're proving my point -"
Rachel leaned over the table, fists clenched. "Don't ever use her to prove a point." She turned and stormed off, seething with rage. Amanda was not a bargaining chip. She'd been the reason Rachel could get out of bed in high school, had been the only keeping Rachel from going entirely off the deep end. Sam Winchester was not allowed to use Amanda to manipulate her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was being irrational, but she really didn't care.
She had just managed to calm herself down when Dean found her on the porch. "Hey," he said. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Rachel hesitated for a second, battling with herself, before giving in. "Sure. What's up?"
"Can we walk and talk?" he asked.
Rachel's alarm bells went off for the second time that morning. Dean wanting to walk meant this was going to be something heavy.
"Of course," she answered, hiding her thoughts. They wandered out into the heaps of scrap metal. Rachel stayed quiet, content to let the silence lie until Dean was ready to say what he wanted to.
It took him almost five minutes, and when he spoke, he determinedly looked anywhere but at her. "When Sam was … stabbed …" He swallowed, obviously not wanting to remember that moment, and Rachel felt her heart sink. This was the second time in half an hour a self-contained Winchester had come to her for a heart-to-heart. "It was like my world … imploded. My entire life was just bleeding out on the ground, and I couldn't do anything. And I held him as he died." Dean swallowed again. "And I can't help - every time I look at him, all I can remember is putting pressure on the wound, telling him it wasn't bad, telling him he'd be okay, and knowing I was lying to him. And then I made it right, and he hates me for it."
"He doesn't hate you for it," Rachel told him. "He thinks you're an idiot for doing it, but he knows why you made that deal."
"Just - just promise me something?" Dean looked at her for the first time since he started talking, and his face was shockingly open.
"What?"
"When I'm in Hell, help him deal. Please."
"Why me? Bobby knows you two better -"
"That's why. Bobby's going to be destroyed by this, and then -"
"And you think I won't be hurt?" Rachel snapped, her earlier irritation spilling over.
Dean flinched. "No, I - I know you will," he said, "but - Rachel, you've already survived so much. The only person Sam's lost that he really cared about was Jess, and I dragged him off into hunting. But I won't be there this time. Please, Rachel. Don't let him go through this alone."
Rachel stopped walking and stared at him. "Do you really think," she said, not entirely able to keep the hurt out of her voice, "that after all this time, I would let him deal with the loss of his brother alone? For Pete's sake, Dean, I thought you knew me better than that."
"I do," Dean said hastily, "I really do, but - I just -I need to know you'll be there."
"You two kept me busy after - after everything happened, and I owe you for that, but more than that, I like you. I'd do anything for you, you know that, so why are you acting like I'm going to run off and leave Sam to his own devices?"
"I didn't think," Dean said quietly. "I just - I've been so focused on Sam and Bobby…"
"That you didn't think about me," Rachel said gently, and knew by his cringe she was right. "It's okay." I'm used to it. "I'll look after them, Dean."
"Promise?" He looked at her again, his green eyes wide and vulnerable, and she nodded, putting aside all the hurt and anger she felt. After all, compared to the Winchesters, she didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to hurt emotions and family drama.
"Promise."
Dean squeezed her shoulder - in apology or thanks, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't about to ask - and turned around. Rachel followed his lead. They didn't say another word as they walked back to the house.
Sam and Bobby were throwing their bags into their cars. Bobby looked at her. "Be careful. Remember the precautions."
"I will," Rachel said. They piled into their cars - two to the Impala, one to the old pickup - and drove away. She watched them go, wishing, not for the first time, that she was healthy enough to help.
It had been two days of no contact from the boys, and she was starting to get worried. It was nearing midnight, and she tried to calm herself by translating and typing the same Spanish volume she'd been working on for what felt like forever, but she had one ear cocked for the rumble of the Impala. When the phone rang instead, harsh and shrill in the silent house, she jumped and rose automatically. Which one are you - ah. FBI. Who the hell is giving out this number at midnight?
"Erikson," she said into the phone, voice crisp and professional.
"Stan Erikson?"
"Yes. Are you are?" She made sure her tone was that of someone too busy to play games.
"Becca Brewer, of the Linden PD. We have two men claiming to be agents here."
When she didn't continue, Rachel said impatiently, "And?"
"And I'd really like to speak to Stan Erikson now."
"You are," Rachel growled.
"Nice try. Put me through to your boss."
Rachel made her voice hostile. "Is there a reason you doubt I'm Stan Erikson?"
"Other than the fact that 'Stan' is a male name and you are undoubtedly female?"
Think fast. "My family's from the Old Country," she snapped. "It's short for Stanislova. If we're done playing Twenty Questions, Miss Brewer, I'm quite busy."
"It's Detective Brewer," the woman said, and Rachel bit back a smile at the hint of a whine. "I have two men here by the names of Thomas Jones and William Smith" - Rachel grinned outright at that; apparently Sam and Dean weren't the only pop culture aficionados in the hunting world - "and I was wondering if you had anyone in your jurisdiction by those names."
"Jones and Smith are two of our best," Rachel assured the woman.
"Don't you need their badge numbers to look them up?"
"If you feel like wasting time, sure. But my answer won't change. You see, I actually know who my subordinates are." She put just the right amount of condescension in her tone, and her only answer was a click. Rachel smiled in victory as she put the phone back on the line.
Stanislova. Where the actual hell had she pulled that name from?
She deflated. Oh. Right. She'd been tiny, too small to know how old she was, and had just found out her parents had names that weren't Mommy and Daddy. With the kind of logic only small children possessed, she'd claimed she wanted to be called Stan from then on, after her daddy, and her mother had explained that some names were just for boys. Her father had come up with Stanislova, a name that made her laugh, and it had been a running joke until she was seven or eight. She'd forgotten about it, or thought she had.
Feeling newly miserable, she pulled the Spanish book closer. She could get something useful done, at least.
Five minutes later, she slammed the book shut, uncaring that she'd just lost her place and that her lack of fluency would make finding it again a bitch. She pulled her glasses off, rested her head in her hands, and let herself sob.
Something always reminded her of what she'd lost. When something funny happened, she still reached for her phone to text her sister. When someone called Sam's name, her first reaction was to look not for the younger Winchester but for the brother who dwarfed even him. The clock in the living room reminded her of her father, who'd dedicated the last seven years of his life to fixing the damn things and made half of their home so cacophonous they couldn't hear themselves think over the chimes. Her job reminded her of her mother, who'd been a dispatcher for five years before the fire.
Wasn't it supposed to get easier with time? Wasn't the giant hole in her chest supposed to close itself up? Wasn't the emptiness, the nausea, the loneliness supposed to disappear? Wasn't she supposed to stop hurting?
Since when has supposed to been a valid reason for you to do anything? she asked herself scornfully. She couldn't help the bitter laugh that bubbled out of her throat and choked her.
She stumbled out to the kitchen. Cook, that's what she'd do. She'd have treats ready for the boys whenever they decided to stumble back in, probably bruised but still running the adrenaline high.
By four in the morning, she'd made a loaf of banana bread that she knew Sam would appreciate, a pecan pie for Dean, and blueberry turnovers for Bobby. Of course, she didn't know if Sam and Dean would be coming back, but if they did, she wanted them to have something, and if they didn't, she could take any leftovers into work.
Comforted by the reminder that she had a routine, that she had something to do outside the house, Rachel finished cleaning up and went back to her translation.
She nodded off over the book somewhere around five, woke up at five-thirty, and continued with the translation. At seven, she started coffee. At one, she made herself a peanut butter sandwich, of which she could only eat half, and went back to her translation. At three, she fell asleep again for about an hour. At four, she went to shower and get ready for her shift.
She tried not to worry about the boys the whole time, and when she got back, the familiar cars were sitting in the lot.
They'd gotten into her baking, she saw: the banana bread was down to a third of its original size, the pecan pie was half gone, and there were nine of the original dozen turnovers left on the plate. There were crumbs on the counter and table - though the spot with her laptop and the Spanish book had been left alone, she noticed with relief - and she half-smiled at their messiness.
Rachel's biggest dream had always been to be a housewife. She wanted a house full of kids (one or two biologically hers and as many adopted as they could take), a loving husband with a steady income, and a combined jewelry/carpentry business she ran from home. She liked cooking alone with shouts and laughter ringing through the house. She liked cleaning up while her family talked in the dining or living room. She liked being domestic in a loud, messy house.
But then her back had to decide that it would snap if she ever got pregnant, and her damn mind had to decide that she wouldn't be interested in dating anyone; at nineteen years old, Rachel had yet to have any interest in anyone, romantically or sexually, and she hated herself for it. So she hung up her fantasy of being a housewife and found a replacement dream of designing explosives. It paled in comparison to what she truly wanted, but it didn't make her miserable just thinking about it, and that made it better than anything else she'd considered.
But this house brought her dream back full force and almost fulfilled it. Messy boys, freedom to cook and clean, laughter and yells breaking the silence - it was her own version of Paradise, she thought as she wet a rag to wipe down the counters and the battered table and pulled out a large plastic bag to keep the banana bread from going stale.
Rachel was still going through her translation when she heard the familiar tread of Bobby's boots on the staircase. She smiled a bit when she heard him start the coffee; she hadn't realized how much she'd missed having someone else in the house.
"Sam and Dean are heading out tomorrow," he called from the kitchen.
"Kay," she answered absently, absorbed in the translation. It would be so much easier if she was fluent.
"Easy salt and burn down in Oklahoma."
Rachel snorted, eyes still on the book. "Since when has one of their salt and burns been easy?"
"True," Bobby allowed, and they didn't speak again until the boys came down with their laughter and jokes.
Sam was quiet until Bobby and Dean went out to the garage, and then he said, "Rachel?" like he wasn't sure of the reaction he'd receive.
"What's up?" she asked absently, trying to unknot a particularly poorly-worded sentence that was confusing the hell out of her.
"About - about what I said, before we left -"
"Forget it," she said, knowing instantly he was talking about Amanda. "I overreacted."
"I still shouldn't have -"
"I said forget it," she said tightly. She tried to be there for them, really she did, but some things just weren't up for discussion, and this was one of them. "Water under the bridge. If I was angry I wouldn't've made you bread."
"Still -"
"Sam," she snapped, looking up at him. "Please. I was in the wrong -"
"That's not what this is about," Sam interrupted, anger flashing across his face.
"I know," she said, deflating. "This is about your need to talk everything out and make sure there isn't anything festering." She'd been that way, once, but then she'd given up on figuring out what her own emotions were doing, let alone everyone else's. "I promise you, there's nothing. I almost forgot about it." She smiled at him, hoping he'd just let it drop.
He sighed. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for," she said, and meant it.
The next month and a half passed quickly. Sam and Dean didn't come back, but they called occasionally. One memorable night in late July, Dean called asking about a rabbit's foot that had gotten stolen from a storage locker. Not long afterward he called to ask how to destroy it. Then came the call saying Sam had been shot.
Then came the call where he laughed himself sick, telling Rachel all about how the air conditioner had caught fire and Sam had lost his shoe. She laughed with him about Sam's bad luck and mentioned that she was registering for classes at a local college.
"Gonna major in languages?" he teased. He knew she was fluent in three languages, could read four now that she'd mastered Spanish, and was learning a fifth.
"Math, I think," she answered. "The teacher down at the high school is retiring soon. Figure I can pick up his job."
The line was quiet for a moment, and then Dean said, "I'm sure you will." She couldn't quite make out his tone. "Listen, I gotta get back to research."
"Good luck," she told him. The line went dead. "Would it kill you to say goodbye?" she grumbled.
Before she knew it, it was August, and her classes were starting up. She rearranged her shifts at the sheriff's office, suddenly happy she didn't need much sleep when she realized she'd be pulling eighteen-hour days. She fixed up her clothes. For the first time in months, she put makeup on because she wanted to, not because she was going in for an interview and had to look nice.
The only thing that could bring her down was the knowledge that she would be around a lot of people she didn't know. Spending so much time with Bobby's books and only a few coworkers had made her forget how nerve-wracking she found being in public.
Her first class was the seminar all students were required to take, followed by math, two educations, and another math. She'd figured out her schedule before she'd registered; between transfer, dual-enroll, and AP credits, she could have her teaching license and a Bachelor's in math after just two semesters. Financial aid, both merit- and need-based, gave her a full ride. In short, it was going to be a good year.
She'd always liked math, though she wasn't the greatest at it. She was better at English and history, but she'd always found those subjects too easy, almost boring. Her worst subject, chemistry, was her favorite. There was a message there somewhere, but she didn't want to look too hard at it.
One day in mid-October, she came back to Bobby's house to find a scene of barely-controlled chaos. "What's going on?" she asked a grizzled man standing near the door.
"Customers outside," he grunted, shoving her away.
She rolled her eyes, knowing that arguing with a hunter would get her nowhere. She looked around the room, hoping to find Bobby, but he wasn't in her line of sight. She moved to the stairs, intending to put her books in the bedroom she'd been using - in name, anyway - since she'd gotten to South Dakota.
One of the men grabbed her. "Didn't you hear him? Customers outside," he snapped.
"Ain't a customer," she snapped back, shaking her arm free and starting up the stairs.
He grabbed her again and pulled, knocking her off her feet. She hit the stairs hard, back-first, and choked in pain. It was fire and ice and painpainpainburncoldnervefir epainmusclepainnowordspain.
And then it was noiseandlightandcolorsandsho utingandisthatBobbywho'spoking ohGodohGodohGodthathurtshurt shurtshurtshurts ohnoitsburningagainwhatsgoin gonwhostalking cantbreatheairairairairair -
White.
And then a smear of light brown and beige - was that Bobby? She squinted, suddenly realizing her glasses were no longer on her nose.
"You done carryin' on?" Bobby asked gruffly.
"Whuh?" she mumbled, her mouth not wanting to move much. Opening her jaw even that much sent spikes of pain through her.
"You been moanin' for the past coupla hours," he informed her. She grunted, all she could manage. "Your back's pretty bruised, but I don't think you broke anything. Can you sit up?"
She shifted her arms to try, but had to stop. Tears trickled down her face from the pain that one movement caused.
"I'll take that as a no. I gave you a Vicodin about two hours ago, but it didn't really help." At least that explained the cramping in her lungs. "Guess you weren't joking about having a high tolerance for everything."
"Nope," she rasped. Just that much movement made her stomach cram with nausea. She forced it down. "Sorry."
He waved her off. "Just be quiet. I'm in the middle of research."
"Yeah," she managed.
The next day, she was up and about like the incident had never happened, long experience reminding her that pushing back to normal was the best way to get over the lingering pain.
The next weeks were, to put it lightly, boring. She went to school, then to work, then back to Bobby's for a few hours to shower and get in her usual hour of sleep. Sometimes Bobby went on hunts, but he was usually back at the yard.
Then she started wishing for monotony when she came back from school one day to find Bobby slumped unconscious over his desk.
"Bobby?" she called cautiously, looking for the bottles she knew were around somewhere but not finding them. "You okay?"
He didn't answer. She dropped her bag in the doorway and crossed to the desk. "Bobby?" she tried again, louder, and when he still didn't respond, she reached out to shake him, keeping enough space between them that he couldn't sucker-punch her when he came to.
But he didn't come to. He rolled right off the chair and hit the ground with a thud that turned the blood in her veins to ice. When she knelt down to take his pulse, it was sluggish and his skin was cool.
"Shit," she mumbled, digging her phone out of her pocket and dialing with shaky fingers, first 911, then Sam and Dean.
She wasn't too clear on what happened once they'd shown up. They refused to tell her anything - the closest they got was, "Think we know what's causing it, we're going to try something, don't freak out if we don't answer for a while," before lapsing into comas themselves, leaving her anxious and worried and trying to figure out what the hell they were using dreamroot for.
Whatever it was, it worked. Sam and Dean remained tightlipped about the whole affair, though Sam was kind enough to shoot her embarrassed and apologetic glances (because she preferred embarrassed apologies to explanations). Bobby waited until they'd left to explain what had happened: Some asshole kid had slipped him dreamroot while he was working a case, Sam and Dean had come in to rescue him.
That was the last she heard of it, but she called Sam that night to rage at him for keeping her out of the loop and treating like some fragile precious piece of glass they had to protect.
"What? No, that's not -" he started.
"Isn't it?" she snapped back. "Damn it, Sam, I've been living with Bobby for almost a year now. Whn he's in a coma, you don't tell me you've got it under control and then lapse into comas yourselves. Did it even occur to you I'd be worrying my ass off? Or were you too concerned with protecting me from the evils of the big, bad world?"
"Of course we thought you'd be worried, that's why we told you not to -"
"Yeah, well, telling me not to do something is a damn good way of making me worry even more! You know why? It tells me you know there's a risk, and you don't care. And it tells me you don't think enough of me to even tell me what you're doing. All I got was 'don't worry, be happy' from you two idiots, and you expected me to be okay with that?" Her voice was trembling with rage. "It's too late for this time, but damn it, promise me that the next time you get up to your eyeballs, you tell me what the hell is going on."
"I'm sorry," Sam said. "It wasn't about protecting you, and it wasn't about not thinking enough of you. It's just that you're not as - I don't know -"
"Seasoned," Dean put in. She hadn't even known he was listening. "You can read as many books as you can, but you've never been on a hunt, and the last thing you needed to be doing was panicking."
"And withholding information was the best way to keep me from panicking?" she snarled. "Did you think maybe having some idea of what was going on would have helped?"
"Yeah," Sam said, "we do. We're sorry. We'll let you in next time, if there is a next time."
"You better," she mumbled, suddenly feeling very tired, very old, and very ashamed of how she was treating them. "I'm sorry," she said wearily. "I shouldn't have taken the past few days out on you."
"You really do turn on a dime, don't you?" Dean asked bluntly.
Her temper flared up again, but she reined it in with effort. "No, Dean, I don't. I'm still mad as shit at you two, and I'm still upset you didn't think cluing me in was worth any effort on your part. But those are my problems to work through, not yours, and I've always had a bad habit of taking my problems out on the people around me. I'm working on it."
"I know someone else who needs to work on it," Sam said wryly. "Call you later, all right?"
"Yeah. Keep yourselves safe."
"You too, Rachel. Bye."