DISCLAIMER: As much as I hate to admit it, I do not own or know Dean, Sam or John Winchester, although I so dearly wish I did. They are the products of the writers... sigh I do, however, own any and all original characters grins

A Whole New World

Tell me, Dean, now when did you last

Let your heart deicide?

Prologue

They say the human race has this amazing and profound instinct to adapt to their surroundings rather quickly. But let's say someone who has grown up in a hectic life of hunting and uncertainty is suddenly thrust into a calm world of normalcy and certainty, or visa versa?

Do you think adaptation is easy in either sense?

Or what about the idea that two people are destined to be together? It's written in the stars; it's fate?

A clichéd question, I know. If you'd have asked me that question three years ago, I would have replied with a wrinkled nose and a definite 'no'. But now? Well, let's just say I met someone who changed my mind.

I step out of the shower and after running the towel over my hair, I wrap it around myself and open the door, feeling the cool October, New Brunswick air on my still wet skin. The window by the front door is open. He's sitting at the desk, his back to me, his eyes on the laptop in front of him. He runs a hand through his short, dark hair, a frustrated sigh escaping him.

"Oh, fuck me."

I smile. "Maybe later," I walk up and lay my hands on his shoulders, "if you're good."

He turns his head to look up at me and grins, then rolls his eyes – those deep hazel pools I'm always getting myself lost in. "Funny."

I shrug. "I thought so, too." I lean down and give him a long, slow kiss, then move to sit on the bed, and look at the computer screen. "I take it you haven't found anything on what we're dealing with?"

He shakes his head, sighing. "No." He looks to me, that cocky half-smile on his face. "But, maybe with the knowledge of a Canadian woman, I'll figure it out."

It's my turn to roll my eyes. "What do you know so far?"

He turns back to the laptop. "Not much. A few hunters from the Fredericton area said they heard howls of pain coming from what seemed to be that cabin just outside Miramichi. One of them also said they saw a young man around eighteen standing in the woods around the cabin." He turns back to me, a hopeful look on his face. "Ring any bells?"

I smile. I know of this story thanks to the wonderful Canadian program, Creepy Canada. I nod. "Yes, I know what you're talking about." I get up and after closing the window and curtains, go over to my bag to get my clothes. "You told me about a family – The Benders."

He shudders. "Oh God. Like I could I forget?" He rolls his eyes. "They were about to eat Sam!"

I chuckle softly at his enthusiasm and I pull out my old, but-oh-so comfy orange fleece turtleneck. A pair of faded black jeans follow. "Yeah. It's known as The Dungarvon Whooper, and basically what happened was, while a group of lumberjacks were out collecting wood, a young cook named, Ryan, was killed by the boss for his money belt."

"Lovely," he sighs.

I can't tell if it's the story or my state of undress he's referring to. With him, I can never tell. I continue on anyway. "Yeah, well, it gets even better. Now, there are two versions of this story."

I can just imagine him rolling his eyes at that. "Wonderful. What are they?"

"Well, in one version, the other lumber-workers return and find Ryan dead on the floor. When asked what happened, the boss says that Ryan got sick suddenly and died. In the other version, when the workers come back, Ryan isn't there at all, and the boss tells them that there was a family emergency and Ryan had to leave. Not long after, dinner is served."

I watch him put two and two together, which I've always found very cute. He shudders a moment later, sounding as though he just imagined something very, very disturbingly gross. "Ew. Okay, so the boss cooked Ryan up and the lumber-workers had him for supper…" He smacks his lips, scrunching his nose. "Tasty." He looks at me. "Alright. Which version is true?"

I sigh. "That's debatable. Most believe the first; I, personally, believe the second. However, they both end the same way."

A look of relief graces his features. "Good. How?"

"Ryan's remains were buried on the edge of the clearing, in a shallow grave, marked by a simple wooden cross." I stand up, pulling my jeans up over my hips, zipping them up. I grab my turtleneck and slip it on, tugging it down over my head, taking in the soft lavender scent of my fabric softener.

"Despite the burial," I continue, "the other lumber-workers heard whooping and yelping and they left the following morning, scared shitless." I walk over to his duffle bag, grabbing the map of New Brunswick we'd bought when we'd first arrived. "Now, it's also said a Priest visited the grave and performed some ritual to calm Ryan's spirit."

"Did it work?" he asks, watching me sit down and start gathering the salt and guns.

"Again, debatable. Some say it did, some say it didn't." I turn back to him and grin. "Either way, we've got bones to burn."

A wide grin spreads itself across his face. "Let's get to it." He stands up and gathers what I haven't. I watch him pull out two knives; he hands me one. The sheathed blade is wrapped in his right hand. His fingertips are calloused and there are a couple of small scars in the palm, but those are the tiniest of imperfections I've long since overlooked. The road dirt present the night before is gone, save for a speck or two beneath a couple of fingernails.

I take the knife without a second thought. My eyes trail up the length of his strong right arm, which when paired with his left, has been everything from warmth from the cold to my lifeline during a particularly dangerous hunt. I continue to trail past his shoulder – or otherwise known as my favourite place to lay my head – to his face; more importantly his eyes. They are focused on the duffle bag in front of him and the contents within. Despite the straight, concentrating-on-the-hunt-ahead look, his eyes hold a high level of warmth – a level which didn't just occur overnight.

He turns his head, his eyes gazing into mine. He gives me a warm, easy smile that makes my knees go weak. If I wasn't sitting on the bed, I would be on the floor. I return the smile, my eyes slowing returning to the sheathed knife in my left hand. I set it in my duffle bag and look at the green fabric heap for a moment, listening to him zip his up.

I remember my brother telling me I would never be able to adapt to this lifestyle.

"It's just not you," he'd said. "You'll never be able to adapt to a life of hunting and constant travel. You wouldn't be able to give up your life here. I know you; you wouldn't."

That was six months ago. What my brother didn't realize, is that I had already given up quite a bit of my life and myself before I even made the decision to leave Toronto. And, I've proven him wrong.

Sure, this isn't the Ritz, and this life is as weird as any life could possibly get; but I'm living it with the man I love and won't trade it for the world.

He opens the door for me. "Allow me, mademoiselle," he says coquettishly, that soft knee-weakening smile spread across his face.

I smile, holding my head high for effect. "Merci."

He joins me at his pride and joy, the 1967 Chevy Impala, an arm around my shoulders; I fit into him, like a lock and key.

A fairy tale? No. This is as far from a fairy tale as you can get, especially considering he's not the perfect Prince Charming you read about in Cinderella and I am most definitely not a Princess. But, despite the weirdness of the past three years, it seems perfect somehow. I love it.

Have I changed your mind yet?

No?

Still don't believe in fate you say?

Well, give us a bit of your time, and we'll tell you our story.