It is, by no means, an ideal situation. Both Winchesters, guns in hand, are staring me down like I just ate their firstborn child. Not a pleasant feeling, but far more pleasant than having a bullet in my chest. They're silent, but their guns don't waver, so I remain frozen in their sights. My hands raise in surrender, which raises their guns higher.

Dean's voice is low and cautionary. "Put 'em down, Ava."

"They're not-I won't hurt you," I whimper, watching my hands tremble in the light.

"Just...put 'em down," Dean repeats, his voice almost a sigh. His expression is hard, but there is the smallest hint of sadness in his eyes.

I feel tears in the edge of my vision and fight to keep my chin from trembling. The Winchesters aren't even looking at me anymore. All of their attention is focused on my hands. The things are alien to me, a foreign presence in my body. Though they match my skin tone, their veins are lined in an inky black that forms a map on the skin, filtering out into my individual fingers. I lower my hands in shame.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" I ask softly. "You're looking at me like I'm one of..." I gesture towards the headless body beside me. "Them. I'm not."

I can see a line of thought forming on Sam's face. "Dean, maybe we-"

"Don't start, Sammy," Dean scolds without looking at him. "I know you saw what she did."

"Yeah, but..." Renewing my faith in humanity, Sam seems clearly uncomfortable with the idea of killing me.

"She's not human," Dean says shortly.

The sentence brings hurt tears to my eyes, and I clench my hands into fists. "But I'm not a monster!" I protest, resisting the urge to wipe my tears. "I may not be like you, but I'm sure not like them! What kind of person murders someone for self defense?" I whine, sniffling for effect.

"Someone that's seen what happens when you let something like you live," Dean replies.

I can feel my hands shaking in anger. "Something like me? What are you, racist?" I spit, stalling for time as my mind races. "Can you imagine what my daily life is like? I doubt it. I can't even touch my own face without burning myself! I just-" I can tell anger is putting them on edge, so I change my approach. With a few hitching breaths, I can feel tears running freely down my face. "I just need my gloves!" I wail, letting myself cry in great, heaving sobs. "Please, please just let me have my gloves."

There is a long wait between the beginning of my furious sobbing and the first sign of a reaction, but I play it through to the end. Tears drip from my chin onto my coat, rewetting blood that has begun to dry and causing it to spread with a watered down consistency. Gross as it is, I let the snot run, reigning it in just enough to avoid forming bubbles.. I don't know if I can keep a straight face with a bubble in my nose.

Eventually, my pathetic display takes its toll on Same. While Dean stands his ground, Sam squats to the floor, feeling around blindly while his eyes are focused on me. He cringes every time he hits blood and nearly slips a few times. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean discovers his brother's sneakiness.

"Sam. Sam. What are you doing?"

Sam casts Dean an irritation glance. "Getting her gloves," he mumbles.

"What? Come on, really?" Dean almost lowers his gun in disbelief.

"What? Look at her," Sam protests, lowering his gun so he can navigate the battlefield. "She's sitting in a pool of blood crying hysterically. I think we can afford to give her the gloves."

"Yeah, well, don't bitch to me when your face is a pool of blood," Dean mutters, adjusting his shooting stance.

I sniffle encouragingly, ignoring Dean's comment, and wait patiently for Sam to approach with my soiled gloves in hand. He leans towards me warily, and I use the moment to shift my weight so that my legs are pointed more in Dean's direction. As he holds the gloves out to me, I smiled gratefully and reach for them, leaving just enough space to entice him to lean closer. Once he does and I've got a hand on the gloves, I kick out, sending him rolling backwards and blocking Dean's view of me. In that split second, I turn on my heel and sprint for the door, relishing in the chorus of, "Damn it, Sam!"

I may be small, but I'm quick on my feet, so by the time they have a clear shot, I'm out of the building and into the shadows, heading straight for a well known alley down the street. It's begin to rain, and once I'm in the clear, I open my arms to it, letting it wash away the carnage that puddles at my feet, ignoring the alarmed gazes of passersby.

"That was far, far too close," I breathe in relief, practically dancing down the alleyway.

It's at this point that I learn exactly how terrible I am at hiding, and how ruthless the Winchesters are when it comes to chasing down a target. In hindsight, kicking Sam might have made it personal.

I stare down the alley at two sincerely pissed off figures back lit by street lights, knowing full well that I am in trouble. With my cute cover blown, I have only one option.

"Okay, I'm sorry I kicked you in the face," I sigh, letting my shoulders slump in defeat.

In unison, they lift their guns and advance towards me.

"You nearly broke my nose!" Sam complains, shaking a trail of blood away from his mouth.

"Yeah, and you deserved it for being stupid," Dean interjects.

I begin to back away, hands held away from my sides. "Would it help if I said 'Please don't kill me?" They continue. "Pretty please, maybe?" No effect. Anger claws at me and I stomp my foot.

"Alright, fine! Shoot me. Whatever, I don't care. Just make it quick, alright? Twenty-three years under the radar and this is how it ends."

Melodrama seems to strike a chord with Sam, who slows to a stop and looks at Dean helplessly. It's a number of seconds before Dean returns the glance.

"What?"

"Have we ever actually heard of someone dying by face melting?"

The question causes genuine confusion in Dean. "What?"

Sam lowers his gun and looks at him sheepishly. "I've never read about someone being melted to death. Not like what she can do."

"So..what does that-wait, are you serious? She just broke your nose and you still want to help her?"

Sam sighs in frustration. "Almost broke it. And no record of killings means that she's never hurt anyone. Or that her kind hasn't. They've flown under the radar completely invisible until now."

I raise a hand.

"Yeah, acid hands?" Dean calls on me, flicking the barrel of his gun upwards.

"If it helps, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one like me," I confide.

"It doesn't help, but how do you know that?"

My eyes shift warily. "Google."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, Sam, if we let her go, we'll regret it later. You know that," he assures Sam with a knowing glance.

"But what if we keep an eye on her? Watch her and make sure she doesn't need to eat people or anything. She doesn't seem like the type to kill for sport," Sam comments, waving his gun in my direction.

"Watch it!" I warn, ducking away from the weapon. "For the record, I've never killed for sport." I cup a hand around my mouth and continue. "My uncles used to try to take me hunting. You know what I said?"

"No?" Dean guesses, conflicted as to why he's still talking to me.

"No is what I said! Look, I don't enjoy having this ability. I've got the scars to prove it. Please. Give me a shot." I pause and squint. "Wait. Bad wording. Give me a chance. Much better."

The comment results in a stalemate that lasts a number of seconds. Dean takes no chances, keeping both his gun and his eyes on me, while Sam's gun is lowered and his attention is focused on his brother. I know with one of them distracted I have a good chance of making a run for it, but honestly, I don't want to. Running for the rest of the night just seems exhausting. To help my case along, I look at Dean pleadingly.

"Come on, Dean. You saw me and your first instinct was to give me pie, not shoot me. Your instincts are on point, and you didn't see me as bad then. Doesn't that mean something?" I ask.

"That's because you've got this whole helpless, homeless thing going on. How do we know that's not just an act?"

I scoff, clearly offended. "An act? Really? Do you think I'd smell like this if it were an act?" The brothers share an uncomfortable glance. "Don't be gentle. I know I stink, but I stink because I haven't had access to running water in a week. It's disgusting, and I hate it, but it's all real. Could you expect a life any different for someone like me?" I have to stop to cough. The sound is raspy and wet, making me grimace in disgust. I can feel my chest becoming sore with the effort as it turns in to a coughing fit that causes me to double over with my hands on my knees. I raise a hand. "Hold on -cough- I'm not -cough- done yet. Just -cough- give me a -cough- second."

"Dean, she's sick," Sam mutters. "If she's telling the truth, she'll just get worse staying out here."

"Okay, no. Your argument was for letting her live, not letting her live with us. Is there a bleeding heart convention in town or something?"

Sam simply glares at Dean, who shakes his head sternly. "I'm not going to let something as dangerous as her into the bunker because she might be telling the truth and she might be sick."

Before I can object to the statement, Sam whispers something in Dean's ear that results in a complete change of direction. His expression softens, and his gun lowers reluctantly. Sam seems to have his brother wrapped around his finger. I can appreciate that.

After a short inner debate, Dean holsters the gun. "Alright, here's the deal. You get to live."

I open my mouth in an exaggerated grin. Dean holds up a hand to stop me from speaking.

"For now. But it'll be under our watch. You can come back to the bunker with us. Depending on-what?"

I lower my raised hand. "Can you explain to me why you live in a bunker?"

"...No. Depending on how you do, we'll-" Dean sighs. "What?"

I lower my hand again. "Do I get to find out what you guys do? Are you secret agents or-"

"Stop. Stop with the questions. No, we're going to keep the interactions to a- stop looking at me like that, Sam -to a minimum until I decide we can trust you." He growls in frustration. "What?"

As my hand lowers, I use it to hide my growing grin. "My last question, I promise. Who wears the pants in your relationship?"

The question renders Dean speechless, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. Finally, he shuts it and covers his face with one hand.

"Come on. Just come on," he says, turning on his heel. Sam opens his mouth to speak, and Dean silences him. "No. No. I hate you."

Holding on to my small bit of luck, I follow closely behind the boys in silence, giving Dean ample time to process his decision. I know better than to push my luck, so when we come to a stop in front of an enormous Impala, I keep my comments appropriate.

"Ten bucks says the CD in the drive is Led Zepplin."

Dean turns a full power scowl on Sam, who shrugs sheepishly. "Get in the car," Dean grumbles, crossing around to the driver's side and slamming the door behind him. I pull open the backseat door with more effort than expected and find myself nearly thrown on the ground by the door's weight. I crawl to my feet, turning down the helping hand that Sam offers, and take a seat inside. Before I can lean out to grab the door, Sam swings it shut for me. I feel like a child.

As Dean turns the key, resulting in an exhilarating roar, Led Zepplin's "Gallows Pole" picks up in the middle of the song. A knowing grin spreads across my face, and I look at the rearview mirror, where Dean frowns petulantly. As his face reddens, he switches from iPod to the radio. Confident in my safety, I buckle my seatbelt and lean back against the seat, making myself comfortable for the ride.

I awake later indoors, but still in the car. Looking out the windows, I can see at least a dozen other vehicles parked around us, each an unmistakably valuable collectors item.

Rubbing my eyes, I mumble, "Where are we? Did we stop at a car show? Man, you've got weird priorities."

Sam laughs, while Dean answers, "Nope. This is the bunker." The sentence isn't finished before I hop out of the car to investigate. I cross the massive length of the garage in seconds, coming to stand in front of a pair of dark, intricately carved double doors.

"This place doesn't lack in showmanship, does it?" I call back to them excitedly.

"Hold on, don't get all hyper on me," Dean replies as he shuts his door. Instead of waiting for them to catch up, I push against the doors with all of my weight.

Needless to say, a hundred pounds doesn't make them budge.

"Easy, tiger," Dean says, coming to meet me. As I struggle against the massive doors, he and Sam each push one open effortlessly, leaving me stumbling into an open parlor. Catching my footing, I take in the magnificent sight, frozen in time.

"Dude, you guys live in a piece of history," I say over my shoulder. "How cool is this?"

Expecting more of a response than silence, I turn to face them, and my face falls in disappointment. "Oh, come on guys, really? I thought we were past this," I whine, shrinking away from their raised gun.

"Sorry, but can't be too careful," Dean says with a shrug. "Downstairs. Let's go."