A/N: Forgot about a disclaimer, so I'll put in now. Though I'm using them purely for my own sick enjoyment, I don't own the Winchesters or Supernatural (so jealous of that Kripke guy!). Enjoy chapter two!

A/N part 2: Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate it! And so you all know, this fic is finished, so updates will be whenever I get a chance to do so.

Chapter Two: Water Troughs Are Not For Bathing

I was fading in and out of consciousness. The bleeding from the gash on my shoulder had finally slowed, but I knew I'd lost a good deal of blood. I only hoped that Sam and Dean were actually looking for me. Because if they were dead, I was soon to be next.

Leaning back against the wall, I rested my head against the cold stone. It was soothing on my forehead, easing the pain a little from the bump. I had no idea how long I'd been there, but I had a feeling that my time was running out quickly.

I closed my eyes, let the dizziness wash over me and let my memories flare up again.

After the brothers' explanation of why they did what they did, we spent that night at Bobby's. Dean's leg was still banged up, a result of, I learned, a particularly nasty ghost that threw him across a room before Sam had managed to set the bones on fire.

I was told that ghosts, nasty spirits, were usually attached to their own bodies. And the only way to get rid of them for good was to find their bodies, salt their bones and burn them. This was where the grave desecration charge came from.

Bobby went out and got a bucket of fried chicken for dinner, and the four of us sat around his table, chatting and eating and drinking beer.

I enjoyed the camaraderie. My job didn't really give me the chance to hang out with people on a regular basis. As such, between that and all the traveling, I didn't actually have any friends or anyone I was close to. I had no family, at least none that I knew of.

It was a welcome change.

"So, Aislin," Bobby said. "What made you decide to do a story on Sam and Dean?"

I took a pull of my beer before responding. "Well, I wanted a story that would really help give me an in with some major news stations. When I did some research and found out about you being on the wanted list, I was interested. So I called some contacts, found out where Hendrickson was, and stole your file from him. When I read it, I laughed hysterically. Demons and ghosts aside, I didn't think anything in there pointed to stone-cold killers. So I decided to see if I could find you."

"And exactly how did you find us?" Sam asked.

I opted for the enigmatic smile. "A good reporter doesn't reveal her sources."

Dean snorted. "You'll tell us or pay."

"Excuse me?"

"Are there any cases, Bobby?" Dean asked, effectively changing the subject from that threat. At least, I considered it a threat. Perhaps not a threat on my life, but a threat nonetheless.

"Dean, you're leg…"

"Is fine," he interrupted. "What do you have for us?"

"Well, Ash called and said he found something on the internet about a monk in Texas."

"A monk?" Sam paused with his beer halfway to his lips. "Since when are monks evil?"

"This one was apparently burned at the stake over a hundred years ago. They tried to refurbish the church, people started dying."

"Burned at the stake for what?" Dean asked.

"According to what Ash found, he was into satanic rituals instead of holy ones."

The brothers glanced at each other, a look more full of meaning than I thought possible. Though, being that I was in the presence of three men who hunted demons and ghosts as their jobs, I suppose thinking telepathy didn't exist was rather naïve.

"Guess we need to put our painting faces on," Dean quipped.

"Ah, not the painting," Sam complained.

"What? Chicks dig artists."

I snorted into my beer and said nothing.

"Don't be laughing, there, little miss reporter," Dean said. "If you're riding with us, you're helping."

I glared at him across the table. "I won't do all the work, so don't even think about trying to make me."

"Never crossed my mind," he mumbled.

"I'm sure."

Having practically memorized their FBI file, I felt I knew Dean and Sam fairly well. Even though the FBI got a lot of things wrong, they also got a lot of things right. For instance, Dean was truly a hard man. Raised by his father to be a hunter - a soldier, really - in the fight against evil, he had little patience for the ignorance of the majority of people. If he told you that you were a target for a demon and you didn't believe him, he wasn't going to bend over backwards to convince you. He was also cynical of things that were good. If you saw an angel or witnessed a miracle, it was a demon manipulating you. Dean had seen far too much of the evil in the world to put any real faith in the good. He was prone to drinking, casual sex, and running headlong into dangerous situations because he found it fun.

Sam, on the other hand, having left his demon-obsessed father and soldier brother to go away to school, had a much more normal grip on the world. He was caring, sympathetic, what Dean would term wussy. But he wasn't innocent. He'd seen his fair share of the evil, and though he was more apt to believe in the good, he also wasn't afraid to pick up a gun and start shooting. He was the brother who had long-term relationships, and took care of Dean when he was drunk and stupid.

In a way, they were almost a good cop/bad cop team, but the bad cop, Dean, was also the most fiercely protective of the two. It was he who would confront the ghosts while Sam burned the bones. It was he who usually ended up with stitches or being hospitalized.

And in more ways than I was actually comfortable with, Dean Winchester and I were a lot alike.

Having grown up in multiple foster homes since I was a child, I wasn't one to get too close to people. It was much easier to maintain a distance, that way when they or I left, it didn't hurt as much. A guy that I once dated for a while called me cold, and maybe I was, but it was a better feeling than disappointment and heartbreak. As far as I was concerned, it was human nature for people to hurt other people, whether it be physically or mentally. And if I was a bitter woman in my late 20s, it was really no wonder. I didn't lament my lack of a childhood, and to me, it seemed Dean didn't, either.

It was easy to figure out that we'd be butting heads a lot on this trip.

That night, perhaps because of being in a new place, perhaps for other reasons, I had the nightmare I used to have all through my childhood.

In it, I was five years old again, hiding under my parents' bed, watching while men forced their way into the room and gunned them both down. My mom fell right at the foot of the bed, and I don't know how I didn't scream as her lifeless eyes stared at me, as blood seeped out of a hold in the center of her forehead.

I woke up with the scream already dying on my lips. The door burst open and Dean bounded in, pain in his leg apparently forgotten.

"Aislin, you all right?"

I dragged in a breath, but my lungs hitched and an unwanted sob burst out. Dean was sitting on the bed before I knew it, hauling me into his arms. I clung to him, all the while inwardly cursing myself. I wasn't this weak, damn it. I'd long ago forced the memory of my parents' deaths from my mind. It wasn't conducive to my mental health, and there hadn't been anything I could have done about it.

Who needed therapy when you had plain denial?

Instead of doing what I usually did, which was to put on a brave face and pretend like nothing happened, I simply let Dean hold me until the sobs died away and I could breathe again.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nightmare. A memory, actually. One I haven't thought of in a long time."

"What was it?"

I sighed, knowing full well that he'd never let me alone until I told him. He was stubborn.

"When I was five, my parents were executed by the Irish mob. My father had dealings with them, and some things went wrong. So they broke into our house one night and killed them. I saw the whole thing."

"How?"

I shook my head, trying to detach myself from the memory, letting it play like a scene from a horror movie in my head instead of the memory it was. "When they broke in, it woke me up. I ran to my parents' room and they told me to hide under the bed. Whatever I did, I wasn't supposed to make a noise. I watched them come in, dressed all in black, and shoot them both in the head."

"Jesus," he breathed.

"The worst part was that I stayed under that bed, staring into my mom's eyes until someone showed up the next morning because she hadn't shown up for work."

He looked stricken, rubbed my shoulders.

I pulled away from him, wiped the tears off my cheeks. "It was a long time ago."

"I still dream about the night my mom died," he confessed.

And that led to a seriously awkward moment. We stared at each other, uncomfortable in our admissions. "Well, I'm fine, now," I said by way of dismissal. "Thanks for checking on me."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'll see you in the a.m."

As I laid back down, it occurred to me that Dean and I had another thing in common. Neither one of us were comfortable expressing emotion.

And wow, we'd just had a moment.

Best not to mention it ever again.

When I woke the next morning, all I wanted was a shower and cup of coffee. Of course, Dean was in the bathroom, so I commenced pounding on the door.

"Dean, for Christ's sake, you don't even have any hair. What in the hell are you doing in there?"

"Jacking off!" came the answer.

"Yeah, sure. You'd have been done ten minutes ago!"

I heard a snicker and turned to see Sam walking past me down the hall. "Any luck?" he asked. When I shook my head, he grinned wider. "He'll be in there for at least another ten minutes."

"Not if I can help it." I knelt before the door, noticed there was no bolt lock. So I snagged the lock pick kit I carried on me at all times and went to picking the lock on the door.

Sam started laughing, leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. "This I have to see."

"Yeah, me too," I quipped. "What's your bet?"

"Sitting on the pot."

"Nah, I think he's admiring himself in the mirror, making pouty faces like a model." When the door clicked quietly, I stood, turned the knob, and threw it open.

Dean jumped, spinning around. "What the -? You crazy bitch!"

I burst out laughing. Dean was standing before the mirror, jeans on but no shirt, and it was obvious he'd just been in the middle of flexing his muscles.

I couldn't stop laughing. I sank to my knees, wrapping both arms around my stomach. Dean stepped over to me, gazed down with fire in his eyes. There were tears streaming down my face I was laughing so hard. He bent down, bringing his face level with mine. "Just so you know," he said, his voice low, warning, "I will get you back for that, and you'll never see it coming."

"Bring it on, muscle man."

Sam laughed, shook his head, and walked away.

"You're going to drive me to the edge of sanity, aren't you?"

I jumped to my feet, patted Dean on the shoulder. "Probably. But hey, it'll be a lot of fun." Then I swept past him and into the bathroom.

We were on the road by 10:00, cruising down the highway in the Impala, music blaring. I was comfortable in the backseat, stretched out, notebook in hand, taking notes.

I didn't know what awaited me in Texas, but I was excited to find out. And hell, if I was being honest, I liked the Winchester boys. They were as normal as demon-hunting brothers could be. As apart as they were in personality and looks, anyone would be blind not to see the way they communicated silently, shared an inside joke, and the basic brotherly love between the two.

It'd be an interesting trip, regardless of the evil monk.

By noon, Dean was complaining he was hungry, and vowed we were stopping somewhere for food. Sam pointed out that he was always hungry, and they needed to cover more miles. The end result was an argument, which Dean won, pulling his "It's my car, I'm driving, and I'm stopping for food" card.

To compromise, we hit a drive-thru.

The weather was beautiful, and with the windows open and the radio blasting '80s hair band music, I was actually having the time of my life. One day with them, and already I was becoming too attached.

So why did I not care this time?

We stopped at a diner for supper, and I simply marveled at the amount of food Dean consumed. He was like a human garbage disposal, packing away two burgers with extra onions, a mountain of French fries smothered in cheese and bacon, and then two piece of apple pie without even pausing to burp. Worse, he'd finished his meal and pie before I had even thought about ordering dessert. I eyed his trim, athletic shape, and inwardly raged. It took me running five miles every day, plus yoga, to keep my healthy body in shape, and I had to sit there and watch a man plow through a mountain of food that would have had me puking after the second burger. Frankly, I was disgusted, and not a little envious.

They elected to drive through the night, and Dean, in a rare moment I learned, acquiesced to Sam's request to drive for a while so Dean could get some sleep.

In the dark in the back of the car, with the road moving smoothly beneath me, I leaned my head against the window and drifted off to sleep.

Only to be rudely jarred awake what seemed like moments later with a stunningly loud rendition of "Carry On Wayward Son." Sam was rolling his eyes and shaking his head in the driver seat while Dean belted out Kansas and played air drums.

I knew it was useless to complain, so I instead raised my own voice over his and sang along.

When I was growing up, whatever school I happened to be in at the time always wanted me to do something extracurricular. I'd always chosen choir because it was the least hassle. It just turned out I was a decent singer. I grinned as Dean spun around in the front seat, staring at me like I'd grown two heads.

"You gonna let me sleep now?" I asked.

He faced front and slouched moodily in his seat. Sam reached out and turned the radio down to mere background noise, and all was quiet again.

I once again drifted off, glad for dreams of a two-headed dog singing Kansas instead of the horrible nightmare from the night before.

Dean was still asleep when I woke up, his head lolling against the headrest, open window blowing refreshingly cool air in his face.

I scooted forward, braced my arms on the back of the seats. "Where are we, Sam?"

"We're close. Almost to the Texas border. Wake up, Dean."

Dean sat upright, blinking and rubbing his hand over his face. "What's for breakfast?" he asked.

"How do you do it?" I demanded.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Eat like goddamn bear and not weigh 400 pounds!"

He grinned like the Cheshire Cat and didn't answer.

I flopped back, in the middle of the bench seat, and stared out at the southwest scenery. Only moments later, Dean let out a yell.

"What the -?"

I felt something hit me in the chest. As I looked down, a very large, very ugly bug looked back at me.

Give me snakes, give me rats, give me a freakin' 20 foot long boa constrictor, but bugs I didn't do. Okay, so I had my vices. I screamed bloody murder and reacted the only way my terrified mind knew how. I turned into a spoiled child who didn't get his way. I threw a tantrum.

Sam nearly ran off the road as I thrashed around in the backseat. The bug fell off me, landed on the seat, and I swear it began crawling toward me. I screamed again, lunged into the front seat, right over the middle and in between the two brothers. Sam finally got the car stopped and I kneed Dean in the side trying to get out the door.

"Aislin! Relax! It's not real!"

Dean's words didn't register, as I was so horrified I crawled out the open window, landing in a heap on the ground. As I jumped to my feet, Dean swung the door open, stepped out, holding the bug in his hand.

"It's fake."

I stopped freaking out, stared at him. "You did that on purpose?"

"Revenge."

My anger boiled over. I swung at him as hard I could, catching him right in the jaw. He staggered back, dropping the plastic bug.

"You son of a bitch!" I yelled. I lunged at him again, but Sam, who I hadn't even seen get out of the car, caught me around the waist, lifting me bodily off the ground. I kicked and clawed, trying to get free. I was going to kill him, I really was, if only I could get loose.

"Sam, let me go!"

"Not until you calm down."

I struggled, but his hold was tight and unyielding. "I'm going to kill him, let me go."

Dean was leaning against the Impala, one hand holding his jaw, and laughing. The prick was actually laughing at me! I growled low in my throat, struggled even harder against Sam.

"Dean, stop being a jerk," he chastised. I could feel his hold slipping, so I kept fighting.

What happened next occurred so fast it actually took my breath away. I slipped out of Sam's hold, lunged at Dean. One moment he was leaning against the car, the next he'd pushed away, grabbed me right out of the air and slung me over his shoulder.

In the few seconds it took me to come to grips with what he'd just done, he'd stomped off the road and dropped me over a fence into a water trough.

I surfaced, spitting stale water and cursing enough to make a sailor blush.

"Are you going to calm down?" he asked.

"Go to hell!" Not very original, I know, but I was pissed.

He simply shook his head, ducked under the fence and came up beside the water trough. "It was a joke, why you are so bent out of shape?"

I opted to glare at him instead of answering. How could he know my irrational fear of bugs? Okay, so not really irrational. They were creepy, and crawly, and… ugh. I wasn't afraid of anything, except bugs. The bigger the bug, the more I freaked. And okay, so it wasn't a shining moment when I was confronted with one. I sighed. He didn't know, and I suppose it wasn't fair of me to get mad at him over it.

"You want to help me out of here?" I asked.

He looked suspicious, but offered his hand. I wasn't dumb enough to think I could actually pull him into the trough, so I simply allowed him to pull me out. I was standing on the ground, dripping wet, when Sam finally approached us.

"Everything okay now?"

I turned, grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and used it dry off my face. "Hey!" he protested.

"Oh, come on, Dean, hug and make up?"

He backed away. "Forget it. I don't know where that water's been."

I ran after him, launched myself into him and hugged him as hard as I could. For a moment all I heard was Dean's grunting against my onslaught and Sam's laughter.

"Man, you got me all wet," he complained, finally detaching himself.

"And you deserved it."

"Guys, I hate to break up the party, but we need to get a move on. We're only twenty miles from the mission."

Grudgingly, Dean and I made our way back to the Impala. As he flat-out refused to let either one of us sit in the car in wet clothes, I grabbed my bag and moved off behind a tree to change into dry jeans and a shirt. The only pair of shoes I had with me, my boots, were still wet, so I had to suffer through sloshing around with soaked feet.

Once we were back on the road, Dean at the wheel and me quite comfortable in the backseat, Sam opened his laptop and began reading the information he'd found on the evil monk.

"It says here he performed 15 human sacrifices when he was alive, all young women. When people finally realized what was going on, they burned him at the stake for witchcraft."

"So then what do we need to look for?" Dean asked. "What could he be attached to?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm not sure. It could be anything. Maybe the dagger he used to kill the women, maybe something else. We'll need the EMF detectors for this."

"They're in the trunk."

"So," I leaned up so I could hear them better, "why has he shown up now, suddenly, after all these years?"

"Spirits tend to become more active when their surroundings change," Sam explained. "Because they started renovating the mission, this monk is pretty pissed about it."

"And because he was burned at the stake, he must be attached to something else?"

"Yeah," Dean spoke up. "It could be anything, so we use EMF detectors to see if anything gives off an electromagnetic field."

"So there really is a method to your madness."

Dean smirked. "Sometimes." He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a hunting knife, handed it to me. "You might need that."

I took the knife and just stared at him. "What in the hell do I need a hunting knife for if we're after a spirit?"

"Iron is a good way to make spirits disappear for a short time," Sam explained.

"And there's no way in hell I'm giving you a gun," Dean added.

"So you'll give me a knife?" I shook my head. "You know, Dean, I'm not 10. And I have shot a gun before."

He looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. I went through the police academy."

"Then why aren't you a cop?"

I met his gaze squarely. "Because I hate cops."

Sam snorted, then dissolved into laughter.

"Why would you go the academy if you hate cops?" Dean asked.

"Well, Jesus, I didn't hate them then. It wasn't until we were close to graduation that I… that some… things happened."

"What things?"

I sat back in the seat, stared out the window. "Just some things. I don't want to talk about it." No way was I going to sit there and justify my actions to Dean Winchester, the "shoot first ask questions later" smartass. It wasn't any of his business, honestly.

So why did I actually want to tell him?

I shook the idea off and fell silent. Dean and Sam exchanged a look, one that I did not miss, and Dean turned the radio on.

We arrived at the mission about half an hour later. The guys armed themselves with whatever they felt they needed from the trunk of the Impala. I had the hunting knife tucked into the back of my jeans. As long as I didn't sit, it was comfortable.

"Let's go get jobs," Dean said with a grin.