Rated for language.

This is a oneshot for now, but I may eventually continue it.

The bar was dark and, if he were to be honest, a bit grubby. A fine layer of dust was settled over both the glasses lining the back shelf and the bartender wiping down a counter with a filthy rag. It wasn't like one of his usual places, which often had quite a few more scantily-clad girls and awful music. This wasn't a place to have fun, it was a place to mourn.

Taking a long swig of his whiskey, Dean relished in the familiar burning feeling it left trailing down his throat, setting fire to his insides. He tried to narrow his focus on only that sensation, blocking out the dull ache in his chest and gnawing feeling in his stomach

It was all too much, which was saying something because he had been through some shit, but this took the cake. Compared to this, his trip downstairs had been a Caribbean holiday. It was all so much simpler back then, before the angels and the Apocalypse and Crowley and Leviathans...

Before he had lost his best friend.

Dean took another drink, trying to swallow the lump rising up in his throat. He wondered if the dreams would stop if he passed out drunk. If he was living in a hazy, alcohol-soaked world, would Cas' face as he let go haunt him every time he closed his eyes? Would the broken cry of his name stop ringing in his ears?

Probably not.

Sam was worried about him, he could tell. His brother's eyes watched him warily as he left from their motel room earlier with a half-muttered excuse of researching. The lie was so ridiculously thin, but Sam had let him go without comment, just nodding his head and going back to his laptop. After all, he had been Castiel's friend too, and could at least begin to feel the pain Dean was experancing.

He vaguely registered a bell ringing as the door of the bar swung open. Another lost soul looking to lose themselves in a bottle, as if they knew what true heartache was. If they had seen and done half of the stuff Dean had...

The customer slid into a stool two away from him and he was surprised to see she was a girl, and young at that. No more that twenty-five at most, with bleached blonde hair and a blue leather jacket that she clung to herself. What the hell was she doing in a place like this?

Obviously, the bartender was wondering the same thing because he raised an eyebrow and asked for an ID. Tiredly, she pulled a card from her pocket and flashed it at him, then nodded wordlessly to Dean's drink. The man looked at her suspiciously, but then shrugged and went to get her a glass.

The hunter's curiosity had now been aroused, equal parts genuine intrigue and desperate attempt at distraction. He looked at the girl closer and saw that her eyes, a gorgeous brown, were underscored with deep lines. The dyed hair was dark at the roots and tangled-looking, and her clothes looked rumpled and a bit dirty. Worst of all, she had burn marks on her hands and odd scars covering her arms, partially covered by an odd brown leather wristband that was flashing green lights.

He had a sick feeling that those scars were not just on her arms, by the way they extended up into her jacket. Despite thirty-odd years of hunting and experiencing just about every injury a human can, Dean had no idea what could cause cuts like that. It couldn't be human or nature-made, they were too odd, almost indescribable. Just looking at them gave him a weirdly uncomfortable feeling. They weren't right. They didn't belong here, especially on a young woman. It was like something from hell.

Suddenly suspicious, Dean reached for his knife. Demons shouldn't be able to find him, and the chance of randomly running into one was unlikely, but still possible. With a low voice, he whispered, "Cristo."

"Excuse me?" the girl asked in a British accent, clearly startled but not affected by the word.

"Nothing," he said. "Just checking something. What brings you here?"
"The same thing that brings everyone here," she sighed. Her accent was weird, very different from Crowley or Bella's. It left off random letters at the end of words and dropped in odd places.

Dean snorted at her comment, relaxing the grip on his knife. "What's your story? Did your boyfriend dump you? Take the house and leave you stranded?"

"You could say that," she muttered, accepting her drink with another nod and taking an impressively deep gulp of it. She stared at the amber liquid, eyes unfocused and shoulders slumped."How about you, then? Your life sucks?"

"You have no idea," he glared at his own drink. "You can't even imagine how damn miserable my whole fucking life has been."

It was her turn to snort. "Could be worse."

"No. It really couldn't."

She shrugged and absentmindedly traced the marks on her arms.

Feeling a bit bad for snapping at her, he attempted to restart their conversation. "How did you get those?" he asked.

She nearly jumped a mile in the air and turned to stare at him. "You can see them?"

"Well...yeah. Why shouldn't I be able to?"

Eyes narrowing, the girl took out some sort of wand and pressed a button, making it glow blue at the end. She scooted over to the seat next to him and waving it in his face, nearly poking him in the eye. "What on earth are you doing?"

She didn't answer him but pressed the wand to her leather band and it made a series of beeps. The readings seemed to startle her. "What the hell? That's not right, it's bloody impossible." She peered at him with narrowed eyes, as if she was just now really seeing him for the first time. "Who are you?"

"John Smith."

She grimaced oddly and glared at him, "Your real name."

"That is my real name."

"I'm sure."

"Dean Winchester. Born in Lawrence, Kansas. Who are you?"

She frowned, and then her eyebrows shot up and, weirdly, understanding dawned on her face. "That is very interesting, though very odd, and honestly a little extraordinary. I think you have quite a story to tell."

"You have no idea."

"So you said, but I have a feeling, Dean, that I'm one of the few people who actually do have an idea. Why don't you come with me and we'll talk a little bit."

"Hey, no offense, your Majesty, but I really don't feel like telling you my life story. You wouldn't understand anyway. The things I've seen and done, the monsters I've faced, you would never believe me."

She smiled for the first time, and it looked pained. Suddenly, this strange girl seemed a million years old and he got the feeling that he was the one who had experienced nothing. The look in her eyes, the hurt and horror and pain, it terrified him and he felt a strange kind of sympathy for the girl.

"Just...come with me, Dean. We have a lot to talk about."

"You haven't even told me your name," he said.

The girl looked away, "I have been called many things. The Valiant Child, Defender of the Earth, The Commander, The Destroyer. So many titles...one tends to lose themselves in them. But a name, that is a special thing, isn't it? I used to not understand that, but now I get it. It's you. Your life, your soul. Who you truly are is your name."

Her words were so cryptic Dean could hardly comprehend what she was trying to get across. "So, you won't tell it to me then?"

She sighed. "The wrong word at the wrong time and everything could come crashing down. Call me Mallupus. It's another title but it's as good as any."

"And that means..."

"The Bad Wolf."

He stared at her. "Like the fairly tale?"

A thin smile stretched apart her face again and once more he was startled by her tired appearance. That wasn't a look that a young woman should have, it was the face of a soldier; battle-scarred and weary of the world.

"You and I are very similar, Dean Winchester. We are the survivors that keep fighting, who lose everyone we care about, including the one person in the world we love most. We have done things and seen things with grim efficiency that would horrify any other human, all in the name of saving the world. But you wonder sometimes, don't you? You wonder if it's even worth it. When you've lost him,who you promised forever to even thought that's impossible, On your darkest days, I bet you wish you had never even met him, you wonder how much easier it all would be."

He stared at the strange British lady and stumbled away from the bar, slightly tipsy as he grabbed his knife. "How do you know that? How the hell do you know that?"

She sighed. "You are a god in some worlds, you know? The fact of this world leaks into the fantasy of others, and entire universes know of your story."

"Keep away from me. Shut your mouth and keep away from me. Don't you ever come near me again."

By this time, the bleary-eyed customers had noticed the commotion and were muttering and frowning at Dean's raised voice. The bartender sent him a very dirty look and nodded towards the door. The hunter glared at this Mallupus woman, but she just stared back, sadly. "The worst is yet to come, Dean Winchester. The most majestic will all fall and your world will pay the price. Keep this in mind."

"What is that supposed to mean? Who the hell are you?"

She just shook her head and strode out of the door without another word. The bar returned to it's sleepy, quiet state, almost as if the interruption had never happened, and Dean just stood there in the middle, shocked into silence, extremely confused, and feeling even more lost and empty than he had before.