It had been a quiet evening - which, for most, would not be anything too much of note, but the multiple phone lines that hung above the old wooden table against the near wall in the kitchen had not made so much as a single whisper for hours.

This fact, in actuality, had not been all too hard to shrug off; with Bobby Singer back in the land of the living, and very much compos mentis, he was sure to be fielding far more than his fair share of calls from his hospital bed - and certainly more than had breached my threshold, even during the recent days of his MIA status. However, the empty hours of my evening had almost filled themselves with a much needed self-pampering session.

It had been a few weeks, if not longer, since I had last done anything just for myself, having returned from a string of vampire hunts to immediately take up my post as Bobby's second-in-command of the hunting masses. The first phone call had broken through just moments after I had jumped in to the shower upon my arrival home over a week ago.

I had just settled back into my overstuffed bed and had lined up the first of my multiple recordings of the second series of 'Sons of Anarchy', when a phone began to ring. Its obnoxious tone echoed through my modest studio apartment, raising me from my comfortable nest of pillows and down and dragging me across the floor.

Reaching the battered wooden table, I came to a halt and regarded the line of receivers on the wall. It was the 'Hunters' Hotline' that had blared a hole through my much awaited evening of Hunnam Appreciation.

Manoeuvring my fingertips around the receiver so as not to damage my newly applied 'Lacy Not Racy' wine coloured polish, I answered.

"Woden."

"Lou?"

I would have recognised the deep, rumbling timbre that was flooding down the phone line in an instant, no matter where I was when I happened to come across it. What I would not have ordinarily bargained for though, was for the usually jovial and teasing tone to be lacking entirely and for pain to have broken its way in and laced itself into his words.

"Dean?" I sat down at the table on an equally weathered chair, tucking my feet underneath me, as I heard him draw in a quavering breath. "Hon, what's happened?"

He offered no verbal reply but I could hear liquid sloshing in a bottle in the background and the telltale sound of lips loosing the bottle as he swallowed. Closing my eyes and reaching blindly for my packet of cigarettes and a lighter, I could do little but assume the worst.

The two Winchester brothers had both been through quite the number of ordeals a piece, a significant amount of them fatal. I had watched both brothers fall apart from the inside out at the loss of the other and could only suppose that I was witnessing the beginning of a similar pattern.

I lit the smoke that I had lain between my lips and took a drag before continuing my quest for solid information, the nicotine that had begun to rage though my system giving me an ounce more strength and courage.

"Dean," I started, "I need you to put the bottle down and tell me what the fuck is going on."

He let out a mirthless chuckle but after a pause I heard a glass bottle hit some given surface none too gently.

We sat in silence for a moment, his hitched breathing the only real sign that he was still present on the other end of the line.

"Say something," I all but begged, tears already threatening to breach my lash line. "You're scaring me."

He forced in another breath, this one larger than the others but no less tremulous.

"I told him to go," he spoke finally, his voice so unsteady and fragile that it was near to breaking my heart.

I remained silent, knowing from previous experience that the man on the other end of the call, the one that was held together with sticky tape and smudges of engine oil, would need to take his own time to let me in. I simply kept him company with my regular draws on the cigarette that dangled from end of my fingers, listening to the cogs whirring in his mind as he dredged up the necessary words for an explanation.

"He's done nothing - nothing - but make me question him in the past few months."

His words were frequently punctuated with the rasp of the rough fabric of his cuff against his skin - his tears being dashed aside - and the gentle clank of his ring against the liquor bottle as he went to collect it before thinking better of the action.

"Ruby... The demon blood... Raising Lucifer... I just." He paused yet again and I could visualise him turning his head to one side, eyes closed, biting his lip in an attempt to hold back enough emotion for him to continue. "I just don't know who he is anymore. He's not the Sammy that I raised."

By this point, my cigarette was lying forgotten in an ashtray on the table beside me and my forehead was pressed into the heel of my hand as I leant forward over the table, my elbow propped up on the worn wood. Tears were falling freely now, gently plunking against the table's surface as they fell.

"Oh, Dean..." I whispered into the receiver, cautiously inhaling in an attempt to prevent him from picking up on my echoes of his pain.

"Lou, I can't... I just..." He fell silent once more, most likely to run a hand down his face or over his mouth as I knew he tended to do when distressed. "I need you."

There was nothing I could do to contain my next sob; it flew out of my throat, compressed down into some form of hiccough.

"Where are you?" I asked, hastily wiping under my eyes with the back of my hand to clear my vision before reaching for an ever-present scrap of paper and a pen.

"Lincoln, Nebraska. Motel 6. Room 19."

"Lincoln? Okay..." I rapidly threw various calculations around in my head for a short moment; three and a half hours - give or take - on the road, fifteen or so minutes to make myself road ready.

"Give me four hours, tops. I'll call you when I'm getting close. Try and get some sleep before I get there, okay?"

I was already dreading the state that I would find him in upon arrival from times before, and the halting conversation and frequent movements of the bottle across his table were doing nothing whatsoever to reassure me.

"Dean?"

He grunted quietly against the mouth of the bottle.

"How much is left?"

I heard him lower the bottle and take a long drawn out moment to assess the damage.

"Not much," came my reply after much deliberation.

"Don't open a new one. Not without me."

•

Hastily glancing down at my evening's attire, I shrugged a little before deciding that the fading black oversized t-shirt - that may or may not have been pilfered from Dean's duffle years ago - had enough dress-like qualities, meaning that it fell a safe distance down my thighs due to my relatively small stature.

There was an old flannel of Bobby's hanging over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, originally there to remind me of the mountain of laundry and household chores that were still left to do in the main house on the Salvage Yard lot; however, as the weeks had passed and the research load had amassed with the few phone calls that I had fielded, my small-time everyday jobs around the house and lot were put off.

I caught the collar of the clean shirt, threading my arms through the pre-rolled sleeves before spotting the rucksack that had been hiding underneath the unassuming plaid. Without a second thought, I grabbed the strap that hung closest to me and hurried across the apartment to the inordinate sized chest of drawers against one of the walls.

It was one that Bobby had found a few states over on his way home from a hunt years ago; I had been eight at the time and had been living with Bobby for five or so years. He had begun to realise just how quickly young children grow as I was steadily outgrowing everything that he had installed in the house for me. Gone were the kiddy-sized table and chairs in the corner of his study, gone too were the various booster seats and the sides to my down-sized bed.

The way that he tells the story, it seemed as though it had been all but sat in the middle of the road and bypassing it was out of the question, so he had lugged the 'damn'd thing' home. Little did he know that he had forgotten to remove one of the sale stickers from the back panel; even now, almost fourteen years later, if I were to pull the dresser away from the wall, the sticker would still very clearly read 'RESERVED: Mr R. Singer. For collection.'

Smiling a little at the fleeting memory, I heaved the bottom drawer open and withdrew one of the few bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label that I had stashed there in reserve for significant occasions. Tonight counted as one of those, I felt.

Next came the shallower drawer at the top of the dresser, in which were displayed hundreds of protective charms in all forms, shapes and sizes. I haphazardly arranged a few on long thin chains around my neck, before reaching back behind them for the handgun I had stored there. Adorning this form of protection was a habit that had been well fed by Bobby in my younger years, and it remained one of the few things that he adamantly nagged me about - regardless of the numerous tattoos that I had gained in previous years.

Rushing through the kitchen cupboard by the fridge, I shoved a few packets of trail mix and some crisps into the open rucksack before turning back to the room to double check that I had everything that I needed.

Checking off the small list of apparently necessary items on my fingers, I reached for the denim jacket that hung on a hook by the door, along with my small shoulder bag which was already packed with my wallet and phone.

Hastily shoving my thick sock clad feet into the pair of battle worn Timberlands that lay on their side by the door, I threw the jacket on, picked up my bags, reached for the keys on the kitchen table and raced out of the front door - barely remembering to lock up after myself.

Stumbling down the steps, I barely took the time to take in my surroundings as I always did. There was something about Singer's Auto Salvage Yard that had always brought a sense of peace and tranquility to me, most likely because my sudden arrival on Bobby's doorstep - little of it as I remember - had been the best thing that could have happened to me.

Parked at the bottom of the wooden staircase to my front door sat my most prized possession. A 1969 Chevrolet Malibu SS Chevelle L89, in a gorgeous dark green with chrome detailing. It had been my eighteenth birthday present from Bobby and the boys; Dean having helped him rebuild and tune her until she looked and ran like brand new. There was always a slight lift in my heart at the sight of her, sat as she was gleaming in the pale moonlight.

I could only be glad that she hadn't been forced down too many old dirt roads in the week before my hunting hiatus. There hadn't been too much spare time to tend to her in the usual fashion, and Dean was far too much a Winchester to let her condition slide without at least a comment.

He had certainly had more than a thing to say about my general upkeep of her in the first few months; regardless of how spotless I kept her, how well her needs were met, he would always find something in my routines to tweak. It took a couple of visits from the elder Winchester brother - once with John in tow, after Sam had left for Stanford - before I took a stand.

Mocking his term of endearment for Baby, I began testing out names for my Chevy - simply to watch for his reaction. Cutting the make and model cute was the obvious place to start, "Mali", "Cher"; then moving on to popular females born in the same year as her original structure, "Jenni", "Ani" (short for 'Aniston'). It had been fun watching him roll his shoulders in an attempt to shrug off how much it bothered him, earning myself enough barely concealed glares and muttered threats to rile me up to continue.

Bobby had caught on to my game pretty quickly, watching with me in joint amusement as Dean silently fumed. It wasn't until my final suggestion hit such a nerve in the Winchester that he just about exploded, that Bobby attempted to step in to mediate to war.

"Bu". A stroke of genius on my part, if anyone were to ask for my opinion; the Chevy's model cut cute and a nauseating term of endearment, all wrapped up in two beautiful letters. Pure perfection. I remember watching in delight as Dean visibly fought against himself so as not to strike out.

Unsurprisingly, the endearment stuck. And even Dean had accepted it enough that his whole being didn't shudder at its utterance.

As I stepped off of the last step onto the ground, I found a small smirk lighting upon the corner of my lip at the memory. It had been a while since then - seven years to be more exact - and untold damage had been inflicted on all of us since, but there was a big enough part of me that still believed that one day things would be simple again.

Throwing open the trunk, I acknowledged the large collection of clothes that sat in an organised system of soft storage containers with a small nod. As a girl constantly on the go, I could never have too wide a wardrobe to choose from. That and the fact that the filled space distracted from the false bottom.

Closing the soft-top zip lids of the closest baskets, I reached beneath one for the almost unnoticeable catch that Dean had installed; flicking the tiny lever upwards caused the entire floor of the trunk space to pop loose. Raising it enough to gauge the highly illegal contents of the lower section, I appraised the ordered layout - spotting each of my personal favourites from amongst the weaponry, and also the basic must-haves. Once convinced that everything was in order, I lowered the lid back down and straightened the bags back into their even lines.

Snapping the trunk closed, I strode around to the driver's side door and lowered myself in, tossing my two bags onto the seat next to me.

A small smile graced my lips - as it tended to do when I was behind the wheel of my car. I turned over the engine and flipped on the radio, plugging my iPod into the cassette aux lead. I immediately hit shuffle and grinned as 'Truckin'' by The Grateful Dead came tumbling through the speakers. Adjusting the sound as I rolled down the window, I pushed the gas and 'Bu' rumbled out of the salvage yard.

•

I had been on the road for nearing two hours, following the I-29 South. I had been meaning to pull in to a rest stop to grab a coffee since Vermillion but as I neared each turn off, my eyes had flitted to the clock on the dashboard as it steadily ticked away and I had driven on. Each moment that I paused was another that Dean was alone, wallowing in his grief and most likely drowning himself in a bottle.

Eventually, having crossed the border into Iowa a good half hour before, I resolved to stop for gas. The needle on my dial was hovering dangerously close to empty - far too close for my comfort at least - and my brain was yammering for some caffeine.

The next motor station was towards Onawa, so I made the appropriate turns and breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted a blinking neon sign advertising twenty-four hour caffeine supplies.

It was a very perfunctory stop; an assortment of chips and iced coffees ready packaged in cartons joined the Johnnie Walker in my rucksack, whilst I balanced a steaming carry-cup of machine coffee in one hand as I paid.

The act of refuelling seemed to take an age as I stood next to the pump, impatiently tapping my foot against the cement, sipping on the scalding coffee as I did so. But soon enough I was back in 'Bu', tearing back to the highway towards Lincoln.

•

Motel 6 in Lincoln seemed next to deserted for so late at night. The parking lot stood empty but for a tired looking Toyota Yaris, an equally waning Honda Accord and - in the furthest corner of the lot - 'Baby'. She sat resplendent in her gleaming black paint and chrome, seemingly the only real sign of life amongst the greys of the concrete and the chipped, worn paint jobs.

Pulling smoothly into the spot beside her, I threw 'Bu' into park and gathered my bags from the passenger's seat. Deciding to forego a trip to the trunk for clothes for tomorrow in favour of getting to Dean immediately, I resolved to rectify my wardrobe issues in the morning.

Stepping out of my car and locking her up, I moved to the small sidewalk between the lot and the rooms, approaching the door to Room 19 cautiously. The curtains that covered the window were only partially drawn, offering me a small scope of the dimly lit room; Dean lay splayed out on the covers, headphones engulfing his head and his face screwed up in obvious internal agony.

Knowing that he wouldn't hear me knocking, I decided to try the door handle and found - to my surprise - that it was open. Edging the door open a little wider, I observed that Dean had yet to notice my arrival and so I continued through over the threshold, treading softly for fear of waking him if he had managed to fall asleep. I turned to close the door, sliding the locks into place, before dropping my bags on the nearest chair.

There was a faint rustling behind me, followed quickly by the sounds of Dean shooting up to sit bolt upright.

It was clear to me the second that I turned around that, regardless of his display of quick reflexes, he was in just as bad a shape as I had feared. His normally brilliant green eyes were muted and bleary from the alcohol, his hair was standing almost on end around his head from his constant action of dragging his fingers through it; to be honest, I hadn't seen him this bad since Sammy died in Cold Oak, South Dakota.

"Lou?" He mumbled, his voice slurred and uncertain.

I nodded quickly, "Yeah, Dean." I gestured behind me towards the door. "We'll have a talk tomorrow about why you thought it was a good idea to leave your door unlatched, especially with Lucifer out on the prowl."

Dean harrumphed pathetically, "'Ts meant to be me tellin' you off. 'M older."

"Yeah, but you're also shit-faced."

He ran a hand over his mouth contemplatively before nodding slowly. "Guess so." He flung out an arm towards me, locking his semi-conscious gaze with mine. "C'm'ere."

I hesitated for a moment before toeing off my boots, leaving them to stand beside his at the end of the bed, and closing the distance between us. He immediately pulled me in to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around me.

I closed my eyes against the crook of his neck, knotting my fingers into the short hairs that lay against the back of his neck, as his body begin to tense as he fought off tears.

"Told him to go, Lou," he muttered. "'M meant to look after him."

I shushed him softly, wrapping my other arm around his waist. "It'll all work out, Dean. I promise. But for now, you gotta get some sleep."

He nodded feebly, lowering himself back against the mattress and nestling into the pillow behind him before turning his eyes to me once again.

"Stay?" he asked, his hand already reaching for mine.

I let out a small sigh, climbing to my feet and walking around to his side of the bed. "Sure, but it's better to get under the covers. You're already gonna have a hangover; you don't really want to wake up cold too."

He fidgeted around for a moment, pulling the edge of the covers up from underneath him and slowly folding himself back underneath them. Once I was sure that he was settled, I crossed the room, shedding my flannel and climbed in to the other side of the bed.

We remained an amicable distance apart for a long time, whilst he drifted off into heavy alcohol-induced slumber and I dozed lightly, waking repeatedly just to check that he was indeed still sleeping.

At some point in the small hours, however, I felt him roll over, coming to rest with his chest pressed up against my back and his arm draped loosely over my waist. It only vaguely registered to me in a dream-like state, but I thought little of it and drifted back to sleep, nestled against the warmth of another body.